Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“So, the agent had to infiltrate the enemy base…”

“Capital,” Jaycee said. “The agent had to infiltrate the enemy capital.”

“Right, their capital, which was also their main base. So she snuck onto a train going there…”

“A plane. She snuck on a plane,” insisted Jaycee.

“Who’s telling this story?” Brenda sighed. “You or me?”

“I know you’re telling it, but you have to tell it right,” Jaycee pouted. “If you say the agent was on a train when she was really on a plane, then it’s all ruined.”

Brenda rolled her eyes. She looked over at the agent, all dolled up in black for infiltration. “Did you really sneak on a plane?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” the agent nodded. “It’s faster.”

“I’m looking for a molder,” said Davis. “Someone who can manipulate the Permeable Lands.”

“Hell, we all can a little bit,” the bartender said. “Even out here in Grant’s Crossing.” To prove his point, he filled Davis’ cup not with liquor but with dust. A moment of concentration later–no more than a blink of the bartender’s eyes–and the glass was full of amber liquid.

“Is it…safe to drink?”

“Of course it is,” the bartender scoffed. “I’m very good at molding liquors. why do you think I run a bar? Just don’t be leaving the Permeable Lands before you piss, or you’ll be feeling the effects of a gutful of sand.”

“I need someone who can make a bit more than that,” Davis said. “A lot more, actually.”

“What is it? Most everyone here in Grant’s Crossing can make one or two things well.”

“A person,” said Davis. “I need someone to mold a person.”

“I’m getting a lot of interference,” said Ev. Her transmission was rent with static and artifacts. “I think if we spend too much time outside the planets’ magnetospheres, the solar radiation will fry our RPD’s.”

Cam swore under his breath. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

“It’s just a remote drone, Cam. If it’s disabled, we can buy another one.”

“Maybe you can, Ms. Trust Fund,” said Cam. “And have you ever been in an RPD when it goes dark? The connection overloads, and you get a nice, sharp jolt of pain that’ll have you seeing double for a week.”

The static faded as their RPD’s entered the magnetosphere of HD 11765d. “I guess that’s why Dale decided to hide out here,” Ev replied. “Not many people willing to blow their investment just to find him.”

Mayotte gingerly examined the revolver with gloved hands. “British issue Webley Mark I, 1887, pocket model, .38 caliber.” She worked the break action, which wouldn’t latch due to damage–it looked like a round had exploded in the chamber, mangling the top of the cylinder and tearing off the rear portion of the upper frame. “I’d say whoever fired it last got a nasty surprise.”

“Why would Aaron have had a gun that old, and that British?” Cynthia asked.

“It’s a Khyber Pass copy,” said Mayotte. “Afghanistan or Pakistan. See this marking here?”

“V. R. 2007,” Cynthia read.

“That’s the cypher for Queen Victoria, who died in 1901. The gunsmiths out there are working out of their backyard, making copies from a master. They don’t know or don’t care what the cypher means, they just slip in the current year. Aaron was in Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “The gun came back with his things.”

“Let’s see what it has to say, then.” Mayotte pulled off a glove and pressed her hand to the checkered grip. Immidiately, she was overwhelmed by a flood of memories.

I will not say that they lived happily ever after, for that is not the way things go. The mundanity of life soon pressed in, and the glow of victory faded in the face of a thousand day-to-day comings and goings. Friendships drifted apart, love affairs began and were ended, children were born and estranged. Some wore what had happened like a badge of honor; others lay awake nights trying to forget.

But know this: whenever they wished it, or whenever they met each other after long years lived in a world they no longer cared to understand, the strong and secret fire that had spurred each of the companions to shake the earth was rekindled. If only for a moment, everything could be as it once had been when they’d stood in the piercing light of victory and sacrifice.

And that’s more than most people can claim.

The ripples subsided, and in another moment Camley was alone on the glassy sea. The lifeboat was swamped but afloat.

There was much to be done. Bailing, repairs, rowing, even sending up a flare or two. But there was little strength left for that right now, so Camley settled down in his seat, propping his head on a gunwale, and watched the rising sun.

“Astonishing…” he muttered, “that the word could contain such beauty and such savagery, within mere minutes of each other.”

A friendly but uncertain dawn greeted him from over the horizon.

I’m not a thief. I prefer to be called a ‘kleptomaniacal instrumental-free bardlike entertainer’–it’s much more befitting to my status as the best nonsinging bard this world’s ever seen. Back home, just about everybody agreed that the only place for a dashing, talented bloke like me was the bardic college–they even took up a collection to pay my way. You’d think that after all the trampled flowers, broken gates and, uh, missing pocketbooks that they’d be a little less generous, but hey, they’re a good sort, and know godlike talent when they see it.

Only problem was, the hacks at the O’Doullgh college didn’t agree. They had the nerve to tell me that my kind weren’t allowed, and even called the guard when I did an unsolicited audition under their bedroom windows that night! Turns out my singing voice is the kind of stuff that scares cats and small children, but so what? The main job of any good bard is to sweep women off their feet…who needs singing for that?

So, I was forced to live in the city off the contents of, uh, lost purses and change, until I happened to accidentally thrust my hand into Nyla’s pocket. She was immediately overcome by my devilish charm and ravishing good looks, and what’s more, she was a last year student at the bardic college! She, being the nice lass that she is, agreed to tutor me in the bardic arts (not singing, though–no amount of the milk of human kindness can tame the cat in heat of my voice). And, after her graduation, we joined an acting company, and traveled sharing out gifts with the masses–for a fee, of course.

“The hero of my fantasy story has to have a tragic background,” said Ellis. “I was thinking orphan. Raised by the elves but never truly one of the elves.”

“Please,” Mickey snorted. “That one’s written in gold ink on page one of the Big Book of Cliches.”

“Well, how about an exile? A terrible crime he didn’t commit–or did he?–has led his own people to drive him off, and he finds refuge with the elves after saving one of their own, eventually living among them as one of them.”

“Yes, that’s certainly nothing like the Rangers in Tolkien,” said Mickey. “Weren’t you the one who said ‘if all fantasy authors were going to do was rewrite LOTR, they were better off writing stereo instructions?'”

“Fine then,” Ellis shouted, slamming his notebook down. “Let’s hear your brilliant hero backstory, Mr. Critic!”

“Hero is the incarnate form of the tears of a dead god, with the power to heal the world or destroy it.” Mickey mimed an NBA all-star dunk. “Swish!”

“Okay, well, you know how you only use ten percent of your brain?” Chatham said.

“No, you don’t. That’s an urban myth,” replied Durant. “You use different parts at different times and for different things, but it pretty much all gets used. Otherwise it would have been selected out by evolution.”

“Well, yes,” Chatham conceded, “but if you could use the whole thing at once, instead of just parts…”

Durant sighed. “They have a name for that, you know. It’s called a grand mall seizure. People flop about like dying fish and bite off their own tongues before choking on them.”

“Are you going to be like this the whole time, or are you going to hear me out?” Chatham barked, exasperated.

“If you have any more pseudoscientific gibberish to spout, you might as well get it out of your system.” Durant shrugged. “But keep in mind that I’ll just be mentally undressing your secretary while refuting it.”

“You obviously aren’t all that interested in intelligence enhancement.”

“If you’d actually used it on yourself, I might be.”

At the height of his powers, with around 5,000 cloistered followers and perhaps 10,000 or more admirers or loose adherents to his philosophy, Amur declared that it was time to reveal the great secrets of his movement. The Amurite press duly printed and distributed pamphlets with their prophet’s revelations:

1. Heaven lies not within the skies above but in the earth below.
2. Those who lack the spirituality to ascend to heaven through earthy denial must seek it physically.
3. A connection exists between earth and heaven at the deepest part of the earth accessible by man; anyone to reach it and return will be blessed by the wisdom and riches of heaven.

These “revelations” caused mass defections from Amur’s cult, even though he displayed an item of wrought gold he claimed to have been retrieved from the earthly entrance to heaven. Not long after, his community was broken up by government troops, Amur himself disappeared in the chaos, and his gold was seized and put on display in a museum.

Bizarrely, some adventurers (inspired by the appearance of what has come to be known as Amur’s Crown) have sought the entrance to heaven that he prophesied. Some claim it is near the great Sakhalin borehole; others hold out for Voronya Cave in Abkhazia, or one of the many caves in Sarawak. But many who have sought Amur’s Cave have never returned.

Until now.