Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

As she opened the door to her friend Logan’s apartment, Cora Edwards was in a great mood. She wasn’t usually a night person, but now, as the clock approached twelve, her emerald-green eyes shone with life.
Cora and Logan had been close friends since high school—just friends, nothing more. In the two years since she and Logan had come to Northeastern University, Cora had dropped by so often to study or just to hang out that Logan had finally given her a key.

She’d used that key just now, and as the door swung open, Cora smoothly removed it from the lock and placed it in her pocket. All the apartment’s lights were off; the only illumination was dim slivers of yellow filtering through the window blinds, probably from the parking lot below.

Logan wasn’t home; he and Cora had arranged to meet at the Midtown Café, as they often did, at 3:00 AM for a quick study session. Cora had been halfway to the café before she’d realized that her textbooks were still at Logan’s. A quick turn and ten minutes’ travel had brought her here.

Cora let the door slam shut behind her, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, with the one silver earring and light brown hair cut boyishly short, before the light streaming in from the outside hall was cut off. Not wanting to waste electricity, Cora felt her way towards the kitchen. The books should just be lying there on the table.

A shape, dark and indistinct, rose up against the blinds. Cora turned to face it, soft, dim light spilling across her head and shoulders. Cora opened her mouth, intending to say “Logan, is that you?”

Three short, staccato explosions that echoed through the apartment cut her off. Instantly, Cora felt a dreadful numbness spread throughout her body, stumbled, and collapsed. She didn’t feel any pain, just a warm, soft sense of well-being as her world went black forever.

The Tuy’baq are a physically weak race, and must be augmented cybernetically to gain sentience; typically, this is done at birth. As almost inherently cybernetic organisms, Tuy’baq are naturally gifted users of data systems. After the Vyaeh conquered the Tuy’baq homeworld of Q’otwaa, Tuy’baq were placed on Vyaeh ships to act as programmers and hackers.

The Tuy’baq cybernetic exoskeletons are not designed for combat, but are nevertheless resistant to small arms fire, and the creatures are equipped with a fusion pulse launcher for self-defense. While typically controlled by a Vyaeh slavemaster, in the past two decades Tuy’baq have recently begun a rebellion against their masters.

Some Tuy’baq have been equipped with upgraded armor and improved weaponry for operations in more hostile environments, and these are typically identifiable by their purple armor. Tuy’baq programmers can be equipped with a cloaking generator that conceals all but a faint outline of the creature. These cloak-capable programmers are typically used for covert missions, but have been employed as assassins as well.

In the seventeen years since the first Tuy’baq slave rebellion, the Vyaeh have taken steps to prevent its spread. By redesigning the programmer exoskeleton, they have been able to maintain firmer control of the enslaved Tuy’baq. The redesigned unit is also more combat-worthy, with a smaller profile, thicker armor, and a significantly upgraded fusion pulse launcher. Older exoskeleton models continue to see use in reserve fleets, however.

Programmers designed for high-risk combat operations have undergone the recent cybernetic upgrade as well. Vyaeh engineers placed special emphasis on the armor of these units, which is electrically charged and capable of resisting nearly twice as much damage as earlier models. A rudimentary guidance system has also been added to the programmer’s fusion pulse launcher armament as well.

Much like earlier models, the upgraded Tuy’baq can be equipped with cloaking generators. The efficiency of these devices has been improved, however, and they leave less of a telltale shadow when employed.

These days, I struggle to remember how long I spent at Southwestern—I’ll go for a ballpark figure and say five years. I spent my days in the library, the lab, and my closet—er, office. At night, I’d go back to my little of-campus flat. It’s funny, but I can’t remember much about that place, I place where spent so much time and felt so much joy. What I do recall about my little home, I’d rather not discuss. I spent time with the woman whose picture was on my desk.

The thing that is the most crystal-clear about that time was how bright the future seemed. Those were heady days—I felt I was on the brink of being a success in life. I was researching something big, something profitable. All that I needed was a little more money for trials. All I needed was a grant—and that was the problem.

The grant man—whose name was Samuel G. Harding, and the “G” stood for Grant—was an absolute beast of a being. Not in the physical sense, mind you—Harding was built like a scarecrow, with gangly limbs and a shock of straw-colored hair. People never took him seriously—until they saw his eyes. Cold, dark, and as gray as the steel spectacles that covered them, Harding’s eyes reflected his character. To anyone who saw him, his cool, menacing demeanor made S. G. Harding seem larger than life.

The man was truly a sadist. Harding’s only pleasure seemed to come from tormenting those at his mercy. He spoke for the grant committee, a committee of one, since the other members were masterfully bullied into compliance with his whims. Whenever a project’s funding was rejected, Harding delivered the refusal in person, and always managed to twist the knife a little more in an already festering wound. Only by total submission to this man’s will could you receive a grant. Few were handed out. That, I suppose, is how Harding kept his position; he always had surplus money for other departments to borrow.

During my time at Southwestern, I tried to distance myself from Harding by not requesting any grants, by sticking to free materials and pocket change. It wasn’t an awful lot, but I got things done without his involvement, and that raised Harding’s ire. I could see it every day in the glare he gave me as he passed by. That expression…it haunts me to this day.

It’s his fault that I waited so long to apply for the funds I so desperately needed; I perused every other option, tried my hardest to find some way around Harding and his infernal grants. It was months before I finally resigned myself to the fact that I had no choice but to go to the grant man. The parties interested in my research (that had refused to fund me, by the way) were hounding me, and to wait any longer would jeopardize my wonderful plans for the future.

“Joy,” you say, “I’m an engineer. I might be able to design something like this if you gave me enough time, but I have no idea how to use it.”

“It is a simple point and click interface,” Joy says from your wrist in that not-quite-monotone voice.

“Joy!”

“Very well. Accessing database entries.” You could swear she sounds petulant that you didn’t laugh at her little pun. “It is an M-50 assault rifle, model 6. This rifle is considered one of the great follies of modern military technology. Under pressure from megacorporate leaders and government buyers, it was rushed into production with multiple design flaws. The result was a highly inaccurate firearm that was nevertheless widely distributed to EC military units. The large-caliber, can-feed, caseless round design proved dangerous and ineffective in battle. Historical Dictionary of Arms and Armor, 8th edition, amended.”

“Amended?” you say. “By who?”

“Unknown,” Joy says…smugly? “Citation needed.”

You sigh, and shake Joy’s interface unit. “Anything else? I need to know how to fire it!”

“Recording of an exchange between a senior EC general and a military procurement officer, recorded on an FNS hidden microphone smuggled into a high-level meeting in a box of donuts:

‘This thing couldn’t hit the broad side of a starship at twenty yards. How many did you say we ordered?’ – Maj. Gen. Eduard Montreaux

‘Twenty-five million, sir.’ -Unidentified ECC officer adjunct.”

***Characters***
Name: Variant
Sex: M
Age: 15
Weapon: Big-Ass Sword
Birthday: February 30
Catch Phrase: “…”
Favorite Dish: Sashimi
Favorite Literary Device: the metaphor

Our hero, the reluctant savior of the world. Hailing from the tiny peasant village of Dedmeet, Variant is a professional soldier that has returned home after five years of decorated service in the Imperial Army, where he rose to the rank of Colonel. Doesn’t like to share his feelings with others, and doesn’t like straightforward explanations. You must have him in your party at all times, since the other characters like to hang around in his coat pockets, leaping out only when they have something to say.

Name: Joy
Sex: F
Age: 15
Weapon: Handbag
Birthday: April 1
Catch Phrase: “Sooo cute!”
Favorite Semi-Obscure Adjective: Ferbile
Favorite Poker Hand: Two Pair

Our heroine, the bubbly yet mysterious wandering princess. Exiled from her home in Veakling Castle by the Imperial Army, she is traveling incognito throughout the world to gather support to take it back, and is also interesting in running up an enormous debt on the Royal Credit Card before it expires. Possesses a mysterious pendant of mystery that may hold the key to saving the world as we know it. Also taught advanced quantum physics as professor emeritus at Veakling University

Name: Hatchet
Weapon: Axe
Age: 18
Birthday: June 28
Catch Phrase: “Cut it off!”
Favorite Mystery Food Additive: Sodium penthalazorbate
Favorite Disease: Gout

The battle-scarred old veteran of ten years in the Imperial army and war buddy of Variant. Is rather hardheaded and occasionally slow, and his first instinct is to chop first and ask questions later. Once you get past his berserker rage and chop-lust, he’s really quite a sensitive, caring guy.

Name: Fitzbang
Weapon: His rod.
Age: 17
Birthday: April 31
Catch Phrase: “What’s in it for me?”
Favorite Cliche: Deus Ex Machina
Favorite Meat Consistency: Medium rare

The former Grand High Total Head Mage of the Imperial Magic Academy, kicked out in disgrace five years ago. Has become bitter and selfish in his old age, and now sells his powerful magic skills to the highest bidder. Hired by both the Empire and its enemies, he won’t hesitate to change sides if even the possibility of slightly more money is involved. Is an accomplished poet and novelist with a keen sense of dramatic irony as well as a nihilist and a vegan.

Name: Pootikins
Weapon: Atomic fluff balls
Age: 2
Birthday: Dec 31
Catch Phrase: “Pootikins!”
Favorite Salad Dressing: Ranch
Favorite Blender Setting: Puree

A secret character, only recruitable after completing a lengthy side quest after the fall of Whokarez but before the death of Xpendble. Place the chest on the pressure plate in the third level of the Clay Caves before opening it, and choose “yes” when the dialog box pops up. Pootikins isn’t very talkative–he (she?) can say only his (her?) own name, and Atomic Fluff Balls are hard to come by. Better skip this one.

Name: Kephija
Weapon: Long-ass Sword
Age: Unknown
Birthday: Unknown
Catch Phrase: “Unknown.”
Favorite Variable Mortgage Rate: Unknown
Favorite manner of faster than light travel: Unknown

The right-hand man of the Imperial Emperor of the Empire himself, and a total mystery. No one knows where he came from who he is, his shoe size, or anything else. Is an extremely capable soldier, able to defeat entire armies with a wink of his eye and a toss of the head. Joins you only briefly, just before the confrontation with the Omninoob.

Dr. Avery had taken his notes long before modern standards of filing and information control had come into practice, and he’d never been known for being a tidy man even by the standards of his day.

But what Maribelle found in his personal collection beggared description.

“First volume: Manual of Axiomatic Set Theory by Quigley, first edition,” she said into her tape recorder. “Page 17: unsigned note reminding self to purchase bananas at the grocery store. Page 26: draft of a love letter to one ‘E. D. K.’ on notebook paper. Page 192: list of household items needing repair with hourly contractor rates on back of Chinese take-out menu.”

Nothing about Avery’s theories or academic work, just reams of bizarre personal scribbles unrelated to anything. Then there were the bookmarks marking the wrong pages, referring to lines, sets, and theories which didn’t exist in the text. Pieces of paper with notes, erratic bookmarks, and marginalia in an indecipherable hand despite Avery’s legible penmanship elsewhere…all things which seemed to have to have no single purpose.

The minor noble had nevertheless a fierce ambition with which he expanded and enriched his realm. But there came a time when his ambition had reached its limit, and he found himself blocked from further expansion by powerful noblemen with the ear of the Emperor.

To continue on his path would mean war, a war which he was ill-equipped to win. Given the choice between contenting himself with his lot or pushing forward, the noble made the ruinous choice to continue. He engaged to his court a certain magician and alchemist from Dejima, seeking to expand his power to the Chrysanthemum Throne through subterfuge and treason, the only outlets left to him.

As his own claim to the throne was weak, the noble sought to clear out all more qualified claimants through a mass poisoning of the imperial court during a gathering of the houses of the realm from which he would excuse himself. The gaikokujin magician warned him against this course but was rebuffed, and set about fulfilling the noble’s desire. He produced a quantity of poison that was tasteless, odorless, and deadly within an hour and delivered it to the noble with a second warning against its use. For his impudence, and to cover his tracks, the noble had the magician executed.

Days before the grim plot was to take effect, citizens of Wazuyashi began to fall violently ill before dying. The poison had spread, and not one member of the noble’s household was spared. Only a few of the farmers in the outermost parts of his small realm were able to escape with their lives, and their tale of horror kept all others at bay.

Wazuyashi remains abandoned to this day, a monument to those whose ambition knows no bounds and whose fates are sealed thereby.

Nevertheless, out of all the Great Cosmic Beings who ruled the earth in the Darkened Ages Past, it was Gotul who attracted the most interest. Gotul, He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness, was the primary Being mentioned in the ancient sources, and the one to which the various cults which tended to arise often devoted themselves.

In the old days, when the cultists vanished, it was ascribed to a variety of causes. Perhaps He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness had taken his faithful to the paradise of nonbeing where he was reputed to reside. Perhaps his wrath had been invoked and he had destroyed the flies that buzzed about him. Perhaps the cultists had found their supplications unanswered and had moved on to more lucrative yet still evil endeavors, such as law practice or civil service.

That ambiguity had the natural effect of encouraging another cult to sprout up, once collective memory had selectively forgotten the worst parts of the story and the occasional bloody torsos that remained behind. As such, when the latest Cult of Gotul arose in the 1970’s, its disappearance on March 23, 1976 was accompanied by a press release on behalf of Gotul issued by Featherby, Brooke & Whitmire:

“Please cease any and all attempts to contact, raise, or invoke Gotul, also known as He-Who-Sleeps-In-Darkness or Foremost-Among-Great-Cosmic-Beings. He is, as his name suggests, very sleepy and would prefer to remain asleep and unmolested in retirement. Those who disregard this warning do so at the risk of being subject to an automatic Ritual of Rending Annihilation. Gotul reminds would-be cultists that the reality of the Darkness would rend in twain the sanity of any mortal who beholds it, and suggests devotees find a less overwhelmingly fatal outlet for their spiritual energies.”

The fact that the Exchange is, well, totally and completely illegal makes things a bit tricky as far as compensation is concerned. Electronic currencies can be tracked: even though the Exchange’s network is not connected to the hypernets, investigators are always sticking probes and eavesdroppers of all sorts in our business.

So everything is done in cash or barter, probably one of the only places around where that’s still true. The fuzz can only tell that someone converted their currency to cash, not what they bought with it. That lends a nice air of plausible deniability that keeps business booming for sentients from 113 official polities and dozens of unofficial ones.

Guess who gets to convert all those currencies into Exchange scrip, by hand?

“I need forty Confederate Riyals in scrip!”

“How much can I get for seven Commonwealth Bits?”

“Why does the sign say no transactions of more than twenty-five Ethereal Shekels are allowed? All I have is fifty!”

“My ten thousand Planetary Suzeranity Units are only worth two Exchange scrips?”

“I need eighteen Violet Republic Talents changed, even though our glorious and beloved Republic is only recognized by a single independent asteroid!”

There was only one catch and that was the Pizza Catch, which specified that no matter how much concern for one’s fellow eaters’ culinary requests, the person who ordered the pizzas would always order several with their favorite toppings. They were always toppings which no one in their right mind would ever like: anchovies and olives, onions and egg whites, marshmallows and bell peppers. Yet every gathering would have 2-3 such monstrosities, and the person who ordered them, unable to comprehend that their deviant choices weren’t widely shared, would eat a single slice and refuse to take any home.

No matter how fervently I argued time and again that cheese or pepperoni pizzas had the best statistical chance of pleasing the most people, the Pizza Catch would come into effect. People would duel over the single pepperoni pie while the three boxes of olive, onion, Canadian bacon, and pop tart pizza would lie untouched save a single slice. If you ordered the pizza, you enjoyed mutant toppings but refused to eat them–a paradox worthy of Yossarian. I was usually hampered in my quest to be the orderer by the fact that I was flat broke and relying on other peoples’ generosity, but the Pizza Catch was such that even if I did manage it, I wound up with a crowd of vegan and fruitarian eaters, who weren’t crazy about the thousands of innocent wheat stalks killed for their meal and certainly wouldn’t countenance anything as barbaric as cheese.