Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Muriel managed one final twist of the music box’s spring before her strength deserted her.

But it was enough.

The box sprung open on the ground where she lay in a spreading pool and began to plink out its simple melody. According to those that heard it, though, the sound quickly became far warmer and richer, almost like a harp or piano. Its music also spread far beyond what normal acoustics should have allowed–in addition to the Public Safety officers near Muriel, it could be heard by government troops in the base and on the firing line, along with their Revolutionary Guard opponents on the other side. Even riot police moving against a hostage situation twenty miles away, along with the hostage taker, reported hearing something.

The effect on all of them was the same: a feeling of overwhelming peace, safety, and tingling warmth like being held in an unconditionally loving embrace. Weapons clattered to the ground. Helmets were pried off to allow the divine sound to be heard with greater clarity. Many fell to their knees or wept openly.

One of the Public Safety officers approached Muriel and held out his hand. Weakly, she grasped it, and smiled–the last thing she was ever to do.

“I’ll meet you at the A-Bomb.”

It wasn’t a real A-Bomb, of course, but there was a piece of obsolete machinery in the field behind Hafmann Hall. No one had any idea what its purpose was–some kind of emergency generator from way back when, perhaps, or a piece of modern art that got mistaken for something practical when the Art Department moved to Dilcue. It still got a fresh coat of paint every now and then, which was the extent that it was officially recognized.

Thanks to struts that kept it off the ground and a cap that kept the rain off, the whatever-it-was looked like a genuine Fat Man/Little Boy A-Bomb. It helped that the spot wasn’t visible from any of the surrounding buildings thanks to a copse of bushes.

Ever since he’d bought his first car, a dilapidated ’46 Plymouth, Evan had taken immense pride in the feeding and grooming of his automobiles. If he hadn’t shepherded a car to the very end of its useful life, it was a personal failure. So the ’46 had lasted two years longer than it should have, followed by a brand-new Packard that outlived its brand by a considerable margin and a Ford that, when given to Evan’s son, was old enough to be considered retro hip.

He met his match, though, in the Vega.

Evan had always maintained two or more cars, but in the 70’s he expanded the garage and bought a Chevrolet Vega Panel Express, intending to use it to quickly dart into town for groceries or to move small items between the construction sites where he was foreman. From the beginning, it was a difficult match: the Vega blew its first transmission scarcely a year later, even as the salt-lined roads of the Midwest took a fearsome toll on the car’s underbody. Scarcely two years after it had been delivered,i t began leaking oil everywhere it was possible to leak, and ate through cylinder walls in the engine at an alarming rate.

Gamely, Evan attacked each of the problems as it arose, either by himself or with the help of friends. Empty Bondo containers piled up in the garage as the bodywork grew more and more rusted; Vegas that came into Sal’s junkyard were ruthlessly scavenged for cheap parts. As spare parts and oils can’s accumulated in the garage, Evan refused to concede defeat; his wife Sandy could only shake her head and mutter about how that machine was nothing but lubricated discord.

She didn’t know the half of it.

“I don’t think our generation has fully thought this whole childraising thing through,” said Andrea. “There are important issues that our parents didn’t have to deal with.”

“Like the internet?” Jake said, stroking her hair. “Or cell phones?”

“Like Star Wars,” Andrea said. “Will we teach our kids that Han Solo shot first and that you watch the movies in the order that they were made? When will we sit them down to talk about Jar Jar Binks?”

“I think we can work through that issue,” Jake said.

“Will we really let them play with kids whose parents are Star Wars fundamentalists that insist no new movies have been made since 1983, or kids who–God forbid–make them watch the movies in numerical order?” Andrea giggled. “What kind of parents would we be if we allowed that?”

“Normal?”

“There you go again, oversimplifying,” Andrea said, playfully hitting Jake with a pillow. “Star Wars orthodoxy could be a huge issue for our children, causing strife in the classroom and on the playground to rival the great schisms of old. Nobody our age has thought this through in the slightest, to say nothing of other issues like Old Trek vs. New Trek or which cut of Blade Runner they should see. We’ve got to do it, for the children’s sake!”

“The sanitation tunnels were built by the French,” Diego said. “They’ve been maintained very occasionally since then, but are still more or less adequate for shunting raw sewage into the Volta.”

“So what you’re saying is, bring a respirator?” said Claus.

“What I’m saying is, bring a sealed NBC suit,” said Diego. “There will be filth down there festering with every disease and parasite known to man and many that will be discovered in our carcasses if we so much as scratch ourselves on a rusty grate.”

“Are you sure we can’t take a more direct route?” Claus countered. “I’ve run into Rokiessian ‘soldiers’ before, and I don’t think even the ones at the presidential palace will be much trouble.”

“Except that there will be over a thousand of them, backed by air, armor, and artillery, and five of us,” said Diego. “Not to mention Burwell’s company if they’re still in town and any other foreign ‘advisors’ Mitumba has hired.”

“Just don’t call him that when we meet,” said Abis. “He hates that nickname. He’ll be irritated enough about being abducted.”

“I never did understand that,” said Claus.

“You would if you read the dossier,” Abis said. “Mitumba means bundles of cheap clothing imported from the first world. The implication is that the dear general is clothing himself with the largesse of the West. Or that they control him with gifts.”

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A university is like a government in miniature. Officially democratic policies conceal an ironclad despotism, with a vast disenfranchised population at the whims of a privileged few, but also with the power to be awoken and moved to action. It is the perfect small-scale experiment.

If a large government can be toppled, a small one can be too. Tactics are easily adapted to differing scales, especially in cell-based organizations. A major–but not too major–university is compact enough that a sustained campaign by just a few cells should show results much sooner than with an established and hegemonic government. If the methods and plan we have chosen are successful–and there’s no reason to believe that they won’t be–our organization may be able to destroy or seriously disturb the university within the space of a single semester.

That will be the proof of concept. From there, it will be a simple matter to disseminate the tools and tactics we used worldwide and move up the chain. A major city, a state, a nation…once we have proven it can be done, someone will do it.

-œ

“It was really ahead of its time,” said Dean. “Branching nonlinear storyline, conversation trees, and a fully-implemented stat/skill system. The graphics weren’t the best, and it was a hassle swapping out all those floppies, but Parallel Worlds: The Void was as good as video games got in 1984.”

“And the Cadillac Cimarron was as good as subcompact cars got in 1983, so what?”

“Well, there was this little thing called the video game crash. You wouldn’t have heard about it, seeing as you were a zygote at the time, but about half the industry went belly-up. Hardly anyone was in the mood for epics, even for home computers, so the game moved barely five thousand copies. It wasn’t until people started passing illegal copies around in the late 80’s that it became famous.”

“And?”

“And it ended as a cliffhanger. You never find out the full story behind where you are or what’s going on. The company folded before they could finish the second installment. You could be sitting on the only copy in existence.”

Holman and Hafmann halls, the twin titans of historic Southern Michigan central campus, had a storied history. Apparently Clyde Holman and Eugene Hafmann had both attended there as undergraduates and taken an immediate loathing to each other. The fact that housing arrangements in those days were determined alphabetically, plus the dichotomy suggested by their surnames, were apparently enough to result in four years of ribbing from friends (in those halcyon days, students were required to live on campus their entire career, as were faculty, restrictions not lifted until 1947).

Fate took both of them to postgraduate work in mathematics, albeit at Ohio State and the University of Michigan, and Holman and Hafmann were both hired by their old alma mater, itself in the middle of a paroxysm of postwar expansion, after earning doctorates. Offices were, once again, assigned alphabetically and the old enemies found themselves in close quarters…for the next thirty years. Their intense rivalry precluded either one ever becoming chair, and neither would retire before the other. When Holman died in his office late in 1977, he willed a large portion of his estate to fund construction of a new building.

Hafmann, not to be outdone, contributed a matching amount plus one dollar, with the stipulation that his be the larger of the two buildings. His death from a stroke two weeks later made that clause unenforceable; in a fit of irony unprecedented before or since, the architect linked the two buildings.

“I wonder if anyone has done any work on using drywall and bass beats to send information,” said Chester. “Forget fiber-optics. I can hear every note just as if I’m in their living room.”

“Our lease is up in August,” said Felicity. “If you can come up with the $500 we need to break it early, great. Because I can’t.”

The thin walls bulged with another round of bass notes, accentuated by roaring voices singing along and clinking glasses.

“Always drinking and singing,” Chester continued. “Like they’re holding some kind of perverted mass. I think I’m going to call it the Tabernacle House the next time I complain. That ought to at least raise a few eyebrows.”

Does your pad lack flair due to streaks of miserable grime? Are new and rich ecosystems of mold, fungus, and mildew ever-spreading in your pad’s most secret places? Has the foul odor of your pad deadened your nose to all life’s olfactory pleasures?

If you answered “yes” or “maybe” or shifted nervously, you need Tai-De-Pad Spray™. Specifically designed for people who lack the natural grooming instinct, Tai-De-Pad Spray™ is an omni-cleansing gel, capable of cleaning any surface to its original luster and adding luster to surfaces that didn’t have it factory installed. Toilets, sinks, carpets, computer hardware, compost, pets, goose down, tile, oxygen, and rock…it doesn’t matter! Tai-De-Pad Spray™ will cleanse them all and leave a sweet almond scent.

Tai-De-Pad Spray™: Tidy your pad with Tai-De-Pad™.*

*Claims may be hyperbole. Use on living surface carries inherent risk of cauterization. Try on an inconspicuous area of your pet before full-scale grooming. If scent of almonds becomes overpowering or you begin to taste metal, seek medical attention immediately. Will not retard and actively promotes the growth of odor and stain-free microorganisms such as anthrax. Definitions of “pad” may vary; for best results do not use in any home or rental property valued over $20,000. Ingestion may be harmful to adults and children interested in becoming adults.