Novella: Offline Dream Part 1 of 5

In a future where humans cannot dream without plugging their brains into the carefully controlled International Dream Network, a young man has a natural dream. Unfortunately, this makes him a target.

Hi Everyone - Great news! Over the next five weeks, I’m serialising my novella Offline Dream exclusively for paid Substack subscribers, though I’m making part one free as a taster for everyone.

Quite frankly, I hope to convert more of you to the paid option of The Dillon Empire, as there is so much more you can get for just $5 per month. For a start, my supernatural thriller novel The Thistlewood Curse is already fully serialised on Substack. Here’s a link to chapter one, which I’ve just made accessible to all subscribers, again with the hope that you’ll upgrade to paid to read the rest of it, which is behind the paywall. Chapter one contains a link to chapter two, and so on throughout the novel, so paid subscribers get access to that in the back catalogue, plus my full short story and novella archive on this site (there’s a lot of those in a variety of genres). Better still, another supernaturally tinged mystery thriller novel, The Hobbford Giant, is about to be serialised here, very soon. This is also an exclusive for paid Substack subscribers, and for the foreseeable future (at least the next couple of years) it will only be available to read this way. I won’t be releasing it on ebook or paperback at this point.

In short, I intend this platform to be the place where my short stories and novellas will be showcased, so becoming a paid subscriber is a must if you want to read these, and I release new material all the time. With extremely rare exceptions, I will no longer publish fiction on Medium. Of course, your $5 per month also gets you access to the full film review archive, as well as all my classic film retrospectives, top tens, and other material I also syndicate on Medium. And if that’s not enough, you get to see my monthly videos, where I discuss various subjects, sometimes suggested by subscribers, and you get to laugh at my awkwardness.

To the matter at hand, Offline Dream was originally on my shortlist to include in my recently published fantasy anthology, The Dark Forest Within (available from Amazon here and the various Draft2Digital outlets here). However, as I settled on the theme for that anthology (dark journeys into literal forests, as the protagonists journey deeper and deeper into themselves), I realised Offline Dream would not fit the theme. It was also too much of a hybrid between fantasy and dystopian sci-fi, so I decided to omit it. Instead, I am publishing it here, as a Substack exclusive. Here’s part one. I hope you enjoy it.

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Offline Dream Part 1 of 5

The night I had an offline dream I didn’t believe it at first. I put a finger to the base of my skull, where a cerebral port for dream plugins had been installed shortly after my birth. But I wasn’t wired to the International Dream Network. Nor was I plugged into my private server, where I sometimes ran hard copy illegal dreams purchased from illicit dealers. By rights, my sleep ought to have been dreamless, yet I had just experienced the most vivid dream of my entire life.

Confused, I sat up in bed, staring absently at my scrunched-up duvet and the cluttered desk and overfilled shelves. On the floor were scattered beer bottles and unwashed plates with traces of last night’s Chinese takeaway. The room smelled of booze and chow mein. On my bedside table, I glanced at the handwritten note, written in bold black ink, reminding me to hand in my overdue essay on late 20th-century science fiction cinema. But the last thing on my mind at that point was whether I’d manage to pass my second year of university. I was a lot more concerned about the seemingly impossible.

I’d just had a dream. A real dream.

When natural dreams had disappeared from the world, nobody understood why. It happened suddenly, almost overnight. Some religious groups thought it was divine judgement on tech companies playing God with innovations such as NeuralSocial; the social media site downloaded directly into the brain. But I never believed God could be that vindictive. If the human race stopped dreaming, we’d somehow done it to ourselves.

At first, people panicked a little, fearing a dreamless human race might drive us insane. But such fears proved ill-founded. If anything, the world became more peaceful in the intervening decades. At the same time, scientists and tech entrepreneurs discovered simple and safe ways to return dreams to human consciousness by creating a delivery system that allowed humans to choose their own sleep entertainment. Really, it was little more than an extension of the technology used for NeuralSocial, but the world was suitably impressed. Now we had dreams of all varieties on demand – for a competitive price, naturally.

So why had I just had an offline dream?

I wished the dream had been easily forgotten, but every detail remained burned into my memory. I’d been standing at the top of a steep grassy hill on a clear but cloudy day. A strange silver coloured cylindrical column about twelve feet tall appeared before my eyes. I reached out to touch it, finding it entirely smooth, without any kind of mark or blemish. The column was mysterious and otherworldly, yet I was not afraid. I felt exhilarated, though I could not understand why. Something momentous was about to happen.

As I wondered at the sheer perfection of the obelisk’s surface, it seemed to open outwards, as though a hidden door had been activated. Beyond lay a dazzling light into which I could not see, but I was drawn to it. At that moment, I became aware of a beautiful girl about my age standing next to me. She wore climbing boots, jeans, a white top, and a brown double-breasted suede jacket. Around her neck was a silver locket embossed with a peculiar symbol I’d never seen before, featuring three overlapping circles. Her dark, long hair shone in the light, and her blue eyes sparkled. I felt mesmerised. I felt as though I was in love with her.

When I woke up, I desperately wanted to be back with her. I wanted us to be together, finding out what lay in the light within the silver cylinder. The dream felt utterly singular, even though the AI algorithms that generated dreams in the International Dream Network could come up with similarly odd scenes when placed in random mode. But such dreams were derived from observable patterns and preferences in earlier dreams, stored in your personal dream history. This dream, by contrast, came out of nowhere. The girl looked like no one I’d ever met, and the scenario wasn’t one I’d contemplated in any way, in any of the dreams I’d chosen to dream, or even when I’d selected random mode.

Glancing at my watch, I noted I’d overslept. Pushing aside my bizarre experience, I shaved, showered, dressed, and grabbed some breakfast from the large kitchen I shared with a dozen other people in our halls of residence. Whilst preparing some toast, Julie walked in and grinned. She was on my course and also running late.

Julie had dyed her hair jet black, wore a short dark skirt with fishnet stockings, and a black imitation leather jacket, deliberately aping the 1980s goth look. The late 21st Century was filled with similar fashion cannibals, borrowing bits and pieces of late 20th-century youth culture. Julie carried it off better than most, I thought. As for me, I didn’t much care about fashion. I simply wore jeans and a hoodie most of the time.

‘You look rough,’ said Julie. ‘Busy night?’

I shrugged. ‘I had a few drinks. And strange dreams.’

‘Plugged in on random mode? I prefer to pick my own. It’s annoying though, I can’t pick anything properly dirty, as mine is stuck with the bloody parental filter on.’

‘Can’t you deactivate it?’

‘Yes, but my parents keep changing the code. I share the network with my parents, and they keep it on child-friendly levels because of my little brother. But he’s a little bastard who keeps cracking their codes, which is why they keep changing them and forgetting to tell me. No porn for me.’

Julie made a glum face. I laughed, trying to push thoughts of my offline dream to the back of my mind.

‘Are you all right, Steve? You don’t seem quite yourself today?’

‘I’m fine,’ I insisted. ‘Just a bit hung over. I’ll feel better in a minute.’

Julie looked unconvinced and went off to make herself a bowl of cereal. I took a swig of tea and a bite of toast. We sat together eating for a few minutes, chatting about the course, before heading off together, out into the stingingly cold late January breeze. Even somewhere as picturesque as Oxford can look dreary and dull at this time of year, amid the gloomy clouds, rain, and bitter temperatures.

My mind wandered amid Monday morning’s lectures and tutorials. I kept thinking about the offline dream and the beautiful girl whose face I could not erase from my mind. Where did she come from? Most dream characters created by the International Dream Network were AI composites, but this girl looked as real as any of the people I knew whenever they cropped up in dreams. But I’d never met her, so she couldn’t be real, could she?

I didn’t tell anyone about my offline dream yet, as I wasn’t sure whom I could trust. The implications of such a claim were likely to be ridicule, but I was just as concerned about what might happen if I was taken seriously. For decades, the UK government has had unholy alliances with tech corporations, and if they were tipped off, who knew what they might prove capable of? There had been too many whispers of conspiracy and cover-ups, especially in the aftermath of the NeuralSocial human trials. These were conducted in third-world countries where it was believed participants would be less likely to sue if something went wrong. It was just like the cynical way pharmaceutical companies used to test drugs in places like Africa and covered up when things went south. Human nature and greed were alive and well, and I didn’t trust those in power to do the right thing.

In the end, the truth sort of slipped out when I spoke later that evening with my illegal dream dealer in the Turf Tavern. A famously small, low-beamed pub, with braziers of coals in its small outside seating area, it was one of my favourite watering holes in Oxford. The large crowd it attracted made it a great place to discreetly meet with Darren, who had supplied me with illicit dreams over the past couple of years, since obtaining my place at Balliol College and moving up from Southampton.

Darren was a tall, somewhat lanky figure in a grey tracksuit with a buzz cut. His sharp face was a little intimidating, especially his fierce brown eyes, which had a blazing, radical zeal.

‘Got some great stuff for you today,’ said Darren, as we sat with our drinks at a table near a brazier, occasionally warming our hands by placing them near the coals. ‘Remember all those outer space dreams you liked, featuring that Phillipa Curry? Got hard copies right here.’

‘You got the Phillipa Curry dreams? Wow.’

Phillipa Curry had been removed from the International Dream Network consciousness streaming platform after her cancellation due to anti-vaccination remarks online.

Reaching into his pocket, Darren took out a cranial plug-in drive. ‘The usual price?’

‘Deal.’

I passed Darren cash under the table, which he hastily took. I put the Phillipa Curry dreams in my pocket.

‘I’ve programmed them with your usual parameters,’ said Darren. ‘Parents and siblings accompany your journey into space with her. But you can return to basic settings if you’d prefer.’

‘No, I like having parents and siblings.’

Darren scoffed. ‘You’re welcome to mine. Personally, I think they’re overrated.’

‘But I never had the chance to find that out for myself.’

‘I suppose.’

An awkward silence fell. I’m used to being an orphan with no siblings or family, but I know discussing this can sometimes make people feel uncomfortable. I was given up for adoption by parents I never knew, and no one took me in, so I grew up in the care of the state. Since studying at Oxford, I’ve felt lonelier than ever, despite making a few friends. That’s why I love dreams where I have a family. They are a great comfort.

‘Hard copies are best,’ said Darren, attempting to break the silence. ‘No one can censor or cancel them. They aren’t buried by algorithms, and people don’t get overwhelmed by too much choice when dreams are properly curated by those who know the quality of a good one.’

‘Still fighting to get hard copies legalised?’

‘Damn right. Dreams should not be entrusted to the political whims of corporations. They sanitise all the things they deem offensive, based on whatever the latest online groupthink is in NeuralSocial, or whatever they deem politically expedient. Heck, they even set limits on what nightmares we’re allowed.’

‘I still can’t believe some people actually choose to have nightmares.’

Darren shrugged. ‘No different to people watching horror films, if you ask me. We should be free to dream as we choose, and free to experience them without ads, for that matter.’

‘I pay extra for the ad-free version, in fairness.’

‘What do you mean, in fairness? It isn’t bloody fair that they get to charge us to pay for the privilege of experiencing dreams uninterrupted. No one should have their dreams intruded upon like that.’

Much as I enjoyed Darren’s passionate defence of a more curated, old-school approach to dreaming, I must confess I always found the International Dream Network more convenient, even with ads. One simply plugged in, made the mental selection from the menu once asleep, and relaxed into the ensuing dream. Still, Darren’s illegal (and uninterrupted) dreams were great too, especially when he managed to get his hands on dreams that were banned, like the Phillipa Curry collection. But I couldn’t resist pointing out his hypocrisy when it came to his complaints about payment.

‘You charge for the dreams you sell. You’re no better than the IDC.’

‘Not the same thing. Mine don’t come with ads.’

‘Yet when people start dreaming offline again, you’ll be out of business too, along with the IDC.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. People like controlling their dreams. Very few people could do it before. Lucid dreaming, they called it. Now anyone can enjoy a safely uploaded dream.’

‘But offline dreams are so much more vivid and real.’

‘How the hell would you know?’

Something in my face must have betrayed me, as, at that moment, Darren’s face fell.

‘Holy shit. You had one, didn’t you? You had an offline dream.’

‘What if I did?’

‘What if you did? Don’t you realise what that means?’

‘It means I might have another?’

‘It means our brains might be returning to normal at long last, especially if it becomes widespread.’

I thought carefully before responding, as I didn’t want to make any direct admission.

‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I did have an offline dream. Do you think that means other people are having them?’

Darren dropped his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. ‘I know other people are having them.’

‘But how do you know? They could just be lying.’

‘There’s a way to authenticate whether you’ve had an offline dream. It involves a scientific process that the likes of Zena Halfwit tried to keep top secret. But the information on how to do this got leaked.’

I couldn’t help smirking. “Zena Halfwit” was the nickname illegal dream dealers like Darren gave Zena Halwick, the tech entrepreneur who had founded the International Dream Network. She was a figure equally admired and loathed.

‘Tell me more about this process.’

‘Why? Did you have an offline dream?’

‘Would you believe me if I said I had?’

‘Yes, because you aren’t the only one, as I said.’

‘Could you introduce me to other people who have had offline dreams?’

Darren scrutinised me, as though assessing my nerve and whether I was trustworthy. Finally, he nodded and sent a text message directly to my NeuralSocial. It was an address in Wantage.

‘Go to this house and ask for Dr Mendelson. Tell her Darren sent you. But don’t involve me any further.’

The following afternoon, I took the monorail to Wantage, a historic market town fifteen miles southwest of Oxford. It lay next to the Berkshire Downs and White Horse Hill; not a familiar area to me. The address to which I’d been sent was a red brick semi-detached home on a housing estate on the town’s outskirts. I stood for some time amid the quiet street, observing the house. Inside, I could see a few young people moving about. They looked harmless enough, so I gathered my courage, approached the front door, and knocked.

A silver-haired woman in her mid-sixties opened the door. She wore a red jumper and jeans and had deep blue eyes. There was something familiar about her face, but I couldn’t quite place it. For a moment, I stared, trying to remember where I’d seen her. I knew I must have done, because I could see in her eyes that she recognised me.

I repeated what Darren told me to say.

‘I need to speak to Dr Mendelson, Darren sent me.’

The silver-haired woman frowned and extended a hand. ‘Dr Sylvia Mendelson.’

‘I’m Steven Harris.’

‘Yes. Won’t you come in?’

Inside, I was escorted to a sitting room where half a dozen young people my age – three men, three women – were watching a comedy programme on television. Dr Mendelson asked me to sit for a moment and said she’d speak with me privately soon. The other young people didn’t introduce themselves but looked at me with something like amazement. I couldn’t understand why, and even glanced behind me, in case something else was drawing their attention. But there was nothing. They were definitely looking at me. They appeared desperate to speak, but I noticed a warning glance from Dr Mendelson aimed at them all before she left the room.

‘I’m Steve,’ I muttered, waving a hand.

The others nodded but said nothing. They studiously returned their attention to the television, staring fixedly at the screen. But their body language seemed a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Why had my arrival provoked such a response? I wondered who these people were and why they lived here together. Had they all experienced offline dreams, as I had?

For about five minutes, I watched the television with the others, laughing with them at times. Some of them occasionally glanced in my direction but said nothing. I wanted to speak to them, but sensed I might be breaking some kind of strange taboo by doing so. Instinct told me to remain silent. Where this instinct came from, I couldn’t say.

Soon, Dr Mendelson returned to the sitting room and asked me to follow her. I was led downstairs into a large basement and expected to find a science laboratory or suchlike. But instead, it was a wine cellar, with many bottles. Some of them looked old, and I suspected they were worth quite a bit.

‘Do you know anything about wine?’ Dr Mendelson asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

‘I’m a collector of rare vintages. Of course, many of these wines were commonplace when first bottled, but as the years pass, they mature, and the taste improves. At the same time, they grow scarcer. There are some bottles here that are exceptionally rare. They may even be the last bottles of their kind.’

I stared at the bottles in racks, some of which were covered in dust. I wondered where Dr Mendelson was going with this.

‘What I have upstairs is another collection of sorts: Those young men and women in my sitting room. I’ve been searching for a long time to find people who have offline dreams. In the old days, everyone dreamed offline. I used to dream offline. Then everything changed. Why?’

I shrugged. ‘Some people blamed the brain rewiring from things like NeuralSocial?’

‘Perhaps. I have another theory: The sudden and dramatic nature of the end of natural dreaming indicates perhaps an evolutionary leap about to take place. A pause, before we evolve into something greater. Or perhaps it is an act of God, if God exists. I don’t know. But I do know that ever since offline dreams ceased, I believed they would return.’

‘Why?’

‘Because before they ceased, I had a dream that they would cease. But I also dreamed that seven young people would one day share an offline dream and be drawn to me. I saw all seven of you in the dream, which is why I recognised you. One by one, you have arrived here, and I’ve taken you in. I believe I have been instructed to hide you all. To shelter you for some greater purpose, keeping you safe until the time comes for you to fulfil your destiny.’

I burst out laughing. ‘This is insane. You sound like an exposition character in a video game! I’m not here to fulfil any destiny. I’m here because I was told you might be able to confirm with a scientific process that I’ve had a genuine offline dream.’

‘I’ve just confirmed it by recognising you, as you were in the dream I had many years ago.’

‘But this is ridiculous! I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘You don’t? Then go. But you came to me, remember?’

‘How do you know Darren?’

‘He provides me with dreams for a competitive price. I refuse to use the International Dream Network. They use that thing to track your movements, habits, preferences, and so on. They just want to make you even more of a consumerist slave. A pawn which they can manipulate for their own ends, satisfying the human need to dream, but robbing you of the human need for challenge, innovation, exploration, creation, and spiritual fulfilment. The human race has stagnated over the last few decades, or have you not noticed?’

‘I’ve noticed there have been fewer wars.’

‘The one positive side effect, arguably. But the human race has become pacified and docile. I believe it is time to change that.’

‘How?’

Dr Mendelson stared hard at me. ‘You’re the final one of the seven to arrive. The others know that.’

‘Why didn’t you want them to talk to me?’

‘In my dream, when the seventh arrived – that’s you – a voice spoke to me, saying you were not to be trusted at first. It said you were a danger to the others, until you could prove your commitment to what was to come.’

‘Well, that’s charming. You’re saying I have an evil dark side?’

‘No, I’m saying you may choose to jeopardise everything by making a selfish choice.’

I scoffed. ‘Oh, come on! I just want to know why I had an offline dream, and what this might mean for me in the future. But perhaps it is better if I just keep it to myself.’

‘That much is wise. If the government finds out, they will capture you and perform experiments. They will want to know why you and these others are different. You will probably end up lobotomised.’

I felt sick at the idea, but I began to feel annoyed with Dr Mendelson.

‘Just because I don’t trust the government doesn’t mean I trust you. I don’t think it’s wise for me to tell you my dream either.’

‘But you must! Something is about to change, and soon. I believe your offline dream may hold the answer.’

‘The answer to what? It’s just a dream. So, I’m a freak who can dream the old-fashioned way? Big deal. The same applies to the rest of your disciples in this little cult.’

‘It is not a cult.’

‘Really? You’ve got a bunch of gullible young people up there, all of whom obey your every whim. What else would you call this? What are you a doctor of, anyway?’

‘By trade, I was a paediatrician, before I retired.’

‘Well, that’s all very fascinating, but I think I’ve seen enough here. I’ve missed one lecture to be here, and that’s quite enough, unless I want to fail my course. It’s been fascinating, Dr Mendelson. I hope you find what you’re looking for with these other weirdos, but I’ve had enough of dreams, premonitions, weird theories, wine metaphors, and whatever else is going on in this little commune of yours. I’m going to leave before...’

My words ceased as I heard footsteps entering the basement. To my astonishment, I found myself staring at a beautiful girl who hadn’t been sitting with the others. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, and around her neck was a silver locket embossed with an unusual symbol of three circles, exactly like the symbol I’d seen in my dreams. My heart almost stopped as I recognised her sparkling blue eyes.

The girl from my dreams.

To be continued on Friday 11th of July

Copyright 2025 Simon Dillon. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

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