Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“I worked at Stanford and Xerox while they were doing experiments with graphical user interfaces,” said Charles. “That’s no surprise; a lot of the best people in the industry did, and those that didn’t could often wrangle a tour. You see the fruits of their labor every time you boot up your Dell.”

“So you copied your interface from Xerox?” James asked, adjusting his microphone.

“I was inspired,” Charles said evenly. “Lots of people were. In my spare time, I began coding a new UI. My idea was to combine the flexibility of a command-line interface with the user-friendliness of a Xerox-style GUI in an environment that could operate and multitask in less than 200k of address space. I needed to design new hardware to run it, but with the right friends it wasn’t so hard.”

“And then you decided to strike out on your own.”

“That’s the thing. A lot of people say that, but it was really the manufacturer that approached us. Ferris Computing had made a bundle with its ‘portable’ machines and then shot itself in the foot–they were looking for a next-generation machine to buy and bring to market quickly. I told Allen Ferris that my team could have our machine ready to ship by summer, 1985.”

James flipped to an earlier page and checked his notes. “June 3, 1985–the Ferris Buddy LT.”

“That’s right. We pre-sold over 50,000 of them. 256 color display, portable, two 5.25″ floppy drives, and a sound card. For $1800 there wasn’t a better deal on the market. Hell, we were doing stuff that Apple, IBM and Amiga wouldn’t get around to until ’87 or ’88.”

“Why did it fail, then?” James asked. “The figures I have here said that Ferris Computing only sold 10,000 units and declared bankruptcy in January 1987.”

Nguyen was an amateur seashell collector, so each of the servers in his farm was named after a genus that produced an interesting shell: Terebra, Epitonium, Syrinx, and, of course, Nautilus.

Most incoming connections went through a variety of security measures; particularly nasty intrusions wound up quarantined on the Aplysia server (named for the largest shell-less gastropod in the world).

Accessing the most valuable information, on Terebra, would require a certain amount of finesse. Gabrielle has no intention of winding up on the giant sea slug server.

“What are these?”

“Distinctive pattern in gravel, sand, or other particulate matter,” Davis said. “One of our key clues, professor. Official term for them is ‘Lyikes structure’ after Dan Lyikes at UCLA who was the first to describe them. The boys call them ‘lykies’ or ‘scribbles.'”

“I…see,” Thomas said, tracing the pattern in the air. “That’s very descriptive while simultaneously very vague. How are they made?”

“If we knew that, we’d be a lot closer than we are to figuring this whole mess out,” said Davis. “All we know is that they appear from one to forty-eight hours after a sighting. We’ve put cameras up, but no one has ever seen one being made.”

He couldn’t see who Ellis was speaking to; they were hidden by the open gate that normally fenced off the dumpsters.

“…most lucrative thing imaginable,” the unseen voice–deep, male–was saying. “College-age programmers have given rise to the greatest economic engines of your generation. Jobs, Gates, Fanning, Zuckerberg…Ellis Vandemuir could be one of those names.”

“We’re well past the Steve Jobs part of this whole thing,” Ellis said. “You’ve seen it work; what you really need is the code. I’m still thinking about that part. What’s your offer?”

“Offer?” The unseen speaker seemed amused. “What makes you think there’ll be an offer?”

“Why did you call me out here for this penny-ante James Bond bullshit?” Ellis demanded.

There was no reply, but Sandra could see the shadows on a nearby brick wall shift from her hiding spot.

“Holy shit!” Ellis cried. “Look, we can talk this over. I can make-”

The unmistakable report of a suppressed gunshot cut him off.

“They settled the matter like any gentleman would, with a duel.”

“You mean…fifty paces? Pistols at dawn?”

The old man laughed, which quickly turned into a rheumy cough. “No, both your grandfather and Moreno were level-headed enough to know that a murder would involve the police and complicate the ownership of the land. They shot skeet at a local hunters’ club known to both. Each man put up his own skeet bid: your grandfather his land holdings, Moreno a quarter of his.”

“That doesn’t sound fair.”

“The Morenos, then as now, had large holdings. A quarter of their lands were more than equal to your grandfather’s holdings.”

“What happened then?”

“After all the efforts to find a fair solution, Moreno tipped the odds in his own favor through subterfuge. He replaced your grandfather’s clay skeet with hardened ones that wouldn’t register a hit.”

Major Istsbo Tōakenkyūjo, originally from Takao Prefecture, was the highest-ranking officer to have survived on Araido Island after sea routes to the Home Islands had been severed and the resultant starvation and typhus outbreaks. His radio transceiver had received news of the Soviet offensive as well as the Emperor’s speech to the nation, but the authenticity of either was unclear.

It was evident enough that the Soviets were up to something, as their minesweepers had been active in the strait between Kamchatka and Ariado, even straying into Japanese waters. Maj. Tōakenkyūjo’s orders, inherited from the deceased Col. Oyakoba, were also clear: Araido Island was to be held for the Emperor at any cost.

During long and restless nights, Maj. Tōakenkyūjo and what remained of his staff had listened to tales from Private Tadashi, the unit’s Ainu translator. According to Tadashi, Araido Island had once been a peak on mainland Kamchatka, until the neighboring mountains grew jealous of its beauty and cast it to the sea. That, he said, explained the island’s perfect appearance, which Ito Osamu had compared very favorably to Mt. Fuji, as well as the existence of Lake Kurile in Kamchatka–the hole that had been left behind.

Maj. Tōakenkyūjo was faced with a choice: defile the ancient and perfect peak with battle, or defile the Empire with surrender. Surviving accounts testify that he grappled with the problem for days on end in early August, 1945, before coming to a unique and unprecedented conclusion.

This post is part of the November 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is a back cover blurb from a book you have written or would like to write.

The early 1980’s: the depths of the Cold War. The Soviet Union has never been stronger.

Yet there are cracks in its monolithic facade in the form of a group of young anti-nuclear activists. Roman Korovin: the brains, a dedicated revolutionary with very personal reasons for acting against the “demon atom.” Mirya Meloa: the beauty, a deadly fighter and skilled propagandist inflamed with passion for the cause. Vasily Albanov: the brawn, and ex-KGB forger with a penchant for bad jokes. Together, they seek to create a Soviet utopia free of nuclear power…through sabotage.

But when a mission goes awry the three find the full resources of the Soviet state arrayed against them, from an aging despotic general secretary to a ruthlessly efficient KGB major. When one of the revolutionaries inexplicably goes wild and begins cutting a bloody path to the heart of the regime’s terrible secrets, the activists are caught up in an unfolding plot which threatens not only the survival of their country but the future of the human race. The stage is set for a confrontation that will shake the state to its foundations.

“Tunguska Butterfly” is a tale of the Weird East, mixing a dash of real history with intrigue and science fiction in an adventure that stretches from the dreary heart of the USSR to the poisoned steppes of Central Asia.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Ralph Pines
MysteryRiter
AuburnAssassin
Jarrah Dale
SinisterCola
dolores haze
pyrosama
Alynza
anarchicq
writingismypassion
CScottMorris

If you don’t know someone personally, I’ve always found it hard to get broken up about their death. I saw people weeping in the streets when Diana died in that car crash–in Chicago! Never mind that our country had fought a revolution to boot her family out of power; people clearly felt enough of a kinship to weep as if they were close blood relatives. That’s a key piece of background information right there.

The thing is, I normally feel as devastated as anyone else when someone I actually know dies. I went through boxes of tissues after sweet old Nana Cummings passed on. That’s another pretty important piece of information, especially as it makes clear that I’m not some emotionless psychopath unable to feel empathy or pain.

When Cara died though…there was a mismatch. Like two wires got crossed somewhere upstairs or something. I felt detached, sad in a general way but not to the point of tears–as if I’d hardly known her, which was as far from the truth as one could get. Cara had been closer to me than even dear old Nana Cummings, but I couldn’t feel much of anything at all.

“That’s right. This peninsula–this island–was designed as a massive conductor of spirit energy. It attracts, traps, harnesses. Murder births the power, makes it grow, taints living souls to spread death and destruction.” The Cajun tightened the noose around his own neck.

“But why?” Vincent cried. His words should have been drowned out by the storm, but somehow they carried. “What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“Immortality,” the Cajun said. “That was the plan, at least at first. But things have reached a tipping point, now. The massacre, the bombings, the war…it was too much. The ritual, if performed now, would result in soulstorm, in annihilation! The only hope is to join the flow and hope to direct it.”

“You’re insane!” Schiller cried from below. He tried to train his machine pistol on the Cajun, but the church’s architecture prevented a clean shot.

“Remain among the living much longer and you’ll see exactly what I mean,” the Cajun cackled. “Only the act of self-sacrifice will-”

He was cut short. Two massive, red stains were blossoming out on his white shirt; the Cajun barely had time to regard them with shock before plummeting. Caught in the noose, he swung freely in the church atrium.

Cobh appeared behind him, revolver in hand. “…deliver the power to one who can use it,” he finished.

Toms had been a trade-union organizer in Luton when the war broke out, and he chartered the first ship to Spain he could find once news reached him: a tramp steamer from Southampton to Bilbao. On arrival, he found that the advancing Nationalists had cut Bilbao and the Basque Country off from the rest of the Spanish Republic. Denied the ability to join up with the International Brigades, Toms fought and organized as best he could.

As a trained surveyor and architect, Toms was given a position building the Iron Ring–fortifications intended to protect Bilbao from Nationalist assault until Republican troops could break through and link up with the isolated Basque Country. He did this with gusto, developing the laborers under his leadership into an effective and politically active unit known as “los topos de Tomás”–Toms’ Moles.

The local Republican commanders eventually became unsure of Iron Ring architect Alejandro Goicoechea’s loyalty. They therefore contacted Toms and had his men construct a bunker separate from the rest of the fortifications, into which the precious metal holdings of the local Bank of Spain and other valuables were placed to protect them from bombardment.

When, as feared, Goicoechea defected to the Nationalists with the complete blueprints of the fortifications, Toms and his men sealed their vault with explosives. None of them survived the retreat from Bilbao or disastrous Battle of Santander.

The bunker? It remains sealed until today, its exact location a mystery taken to Toms’ grave.

Or is it?