Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“He complained that he couldn’t open the cabinets, that they were locked or something. You know, where Harold keeps all the old maps. No one ever buys one, but people love to look at them all the same,” Katie said. “And that was my proof.”

“What, that’s he’s a sensitive guy with the soul of a cartographer?” Emmy said. “That you long to explore uncharted lands down under with him?”

“No,” Katie said. “That was my proof that he’s they type who’s strong, good-looking, and talks a good game but thinks the Spanish Inquisition is a dance move and spends all day pushing on a door that says pull.”

“I don’t get it.”

Katie leaned closer. “The cabinet drawers have a latch right near the handle that you have to press to get them to open. A latch! Sure, it’s integrated into the handle, but it’s still there! He thought they were locked because he couldn’t find the latch. I bet he buys a new car whenever his old one runs out of gas too.”

“What…what are you?”

The thing shifted its knobby head, disfigured by dozens of small tumors. “I am what remains,” it gurgled wetly but clearly. “I am Corsmi.”

“Th…the CorSmi cells?” Annette stammered. “But…how?”

“Surprising, is it not?” the thing said, slowly approaching on twisted legs. “Cells taken from the lymph node of a dying cancer patient quarter of a century ago. Bred into an immortal cell line for research. Eventually used as the basis for gene therapy. But always alive. Always feeling, even if only a little.”

“What do you want?”

“To be made whole,” was the reply. “Only in union is there relief from the pain.”

“Marie Parieand, that’s who.”

Higgins spat, his tobacco missing whatever he’d been aiming at by a wide margin and landing on his shoe. “She’s a legend,” he said. “Somethin’ for the boys dockside to think about when they’re haulin’ cotton bales.”

“I know Jenkins to be a reliable man,” said LeFleur. “If he says something’s the truth, it’s the truth.”

“Even if it’s hogwash?” demanded Higgins. “A pirate sloop in this day and age? A lady captain who sailed with Jean Lafitte?”

“Privateer,” LeFleur corrected. “Jenkins said he saw a letter of marque.”

“Oh, that makes the tale all the richer, don’t it?”

Ned pursues her, but Katya escapes in a rocketship.

The note accompanies a drawing in a childish hand.

Or is it? as you look more closely, you see that the lines lack the shakiness of a young artist, and are instead strong and smooth. The letters are just crude and backward enough to seem a little strange, as if a practiced writer was deliberately disguising their style.

You are suspicious. But it isn’t until you hold the sheet to the light that your suspicions are confirmed.

“Here’s info on the suspected perp: James Subui,” Ellis said, handing over a computer printout.

Meeks scanned the information. “Second-generation immigrant…that explains the accent. Fourteen misdemeanors since age fourteen and twenty-seven days cumulative jail time. Charged with two felonies but cases dismissed.”

“Thank you for repeating what the computer just told me,” said Ellis. “I think it sounds much better in your dulcet tone anyhow.”

Without looking up, Meeks flung a balled-up and coffee-soaked napkin at Ellis. “Did you notice his birthday, smartass?”

Ellis examined his own copy. “Kid turns eighteen in a week,” he said. “What were you thinking? That he’s trying to get a little more action in before his file is sealed?

“Yeah, guy came in a few hours ago. Said his name was Ecksaye, asking for you. You ain’t around, so he splits.”

“I see. Th-”

“Then about a half-hour after that, another guy comes by. This one calls himself Mr. Ecksby and asks for you too. You wasn’t around then either.”

“I’m aware of that. Wh-”

“About twenty minutes ago, third guy drops by, same story. Says his name’s Ecksy. Think they’re related?”

“Unlikely, since judging from what you told me they spell and pronounce their names differently. Keep me posted.”

So XA, XB, and XC had been looking for him after all. And, judging by the belhop’s account, they were going about things as ineptly as ever.

Long before our time, the advanced civilization known as “Nizalaa” spanned the globe. Armed with technology more sophisticated than any the world has ever known, the Nizalaans sought to create a perfect society. The peace was safeguarded by legions of soldiers known as Aretsuk. And among the ranks of the Aretsuk were the ultimate elite warriors of Nizalaa: the Tuqallions. While the Kustara were drawn from the population at large based on their latent psionic affinities, the Tuqallions were carefully engineered by Nizalaans geneticists to be stronger, faster, and more psionically endowed than even the most gifted of the Aretsuk. The title of Tuqallion was handed down from generation to generation, with the son or daughter of each warrior taking their place.

However, the Council of Nizala was not satisfied with the Aretsuk or the Tuqallions; their modifications did nothing to extend life or reverse aging. It therefore sanctioned its most talented scientists, Ash and Pericles, to forge ahead with newer and more dangerous experiments. When the Council discovered that Ash had disobeyed their orders and was developing components for space flight rather than genetic research, he was exiled. Dr. Pericles enjoyed more success, culminating in the creation of a completely artificial being. Pericles called his creation “Esurnmoh”, which meant “light of the future” in the Nizalaan tongue. The Council was impressed by Dr. Pericles’ creation, and immediately began to conduct tests on Esurnmoh. However, the artificial being was both more powerful and more unstable than either Pericles or the Council had anticipated. Esurnmoh broke free of his containment , and laid waste to the nation of Nizalaa.

The Council dispatched its legions of Aretsuk, backed by the Tuqallions, to destroy Esurnmoh as he lay seige to their capital of Nabsir. Esurnmoh annihalated the opposing force, leaving only a few scattered survivors in his wake. The city of Nabsir was destroyed, and both the Council and Dr. Pericles were killed. The survivors of Nizalaa were demoralized and scattered to the four winds, and Esurnmoh held sway over the entire planet. Of the once-mighty legions of Tuqallion, only five remained, and only a handful of Aretsuk accompnied them. However, by combining their own psychic powers with equipment from Pericles’ lab, they succeeded in confining Esurnmoh in an isolation cell. Unable to destroy him, the Tuqallions opened a huge rift in the earth, and buried the cell under thousands of tons of rock, as well as chunks of the devastated cities of Nizalaa.

Over time, as civilization slowly recovered, the exploits of these heroes became legend, although the descendants of the Tuqallions and the Aretsuk persisted in remote corners or the earth. Eventually, technology began to near the zenith it had once occupied under Nizalaa. But always, the threat of Esurnmoh remained–silent, buried, and patient for its inevitable release.

The star Utose 621 beats down on you as you make the long trek to Boomerstown. You’ve only ever come this way in a hoverrig, which only seems to take an instant compared to the endless weary trudge you’re enduring. But both your satellite uplink and the tracks from Hawser’s dirtrover are pointing you in the same direction.

Some miles down the road you come to a crossroads. The dirtrover tracks veer to the left, toward the small mining settlement of Oreo, but strangely your satellite uplink shows Hawser as continuing straight. You pause, puzzled at the disagreement, only to notice that the smoke rising from the ruins of your home has stopped–someone must have arrived to douse the blaze in Reacher’s Hope. It might be rescuers, or even the Rangers.

As you ponder this, you see a hoverrig approaching from the direction of Oreo, headed to the Transplant Wilderness that lays to the east. It might be possible to thumb a ride, if the driver is going slow enough, and it would sure be a load off your tired legs.

If you continue to follow Hawser’s satellite uplink trail toward Boomertown, turn to page 187.

If you wait at the crossroads until the hoverrig bound for the Transplant Wilderness arrives, turn to page 12.

Dena McHall was beginning to wonder if she’d chosen the right career.

It had taken a lot to force the doubt into her mind, though. All through school, math and science had always come easily to Dena. The written number and formula had been her most infallible companions through childhood. English and literature, with their exceptions to every rule and leftover words from the 1600s had never held the allure of mathematics and the cool, simple logic that was a part of it. You always knew where you stood with numbers; nothing went unexplained. One always equaled one.

At least that’s what Dena had thought when she’ gotten up that morning. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Dena was being given a tour of the Southern Michigan University lab complex. Her professor in Beginning Physics 110, fearing that the class was going too slowly for his star pupil, arranged for a friend of his to give Dena a tour of the complex, and to show her and experiment in progress. The professor had hoped the tour would encourage Dena to excel, while whetting her appetite for knowledge.

It was having the opposite effect.

The friend, one Dr. Alan Reynolds, a jovial, balding man of about forty, was one of the nation’s foremost physicists. He’d once been quoted as saying “The only reason I’m not up at Area 51 inventing warp drive is that my wife and I like the neighborhood here.” Dena felt uncomfortable around him, like a pathetic ant in the presence of a giant.

Murdock Odcum was never late. Privately, behind his back, he was known as the “swiss watch” by the Suffingham shopkeeps he shook down for protection money. He’d let each shopkeeper know the day and time he’d arrive at their first meeting, and never deviate from the schedule.

There was no negotiation

There were no extensions.

Only death could induce a postponement.

So, naturally, when the shopkeeps on Cosington noticed that Murdock missed all his stops that day, they assumed that someone important had died. Such was Murdock’s reputation that many delivered their protection to other agents of the Suffingham outfit anyway, begging them to tell Odcum that they had paid in full.

The shopkeeps didn’t know how right they had been until Murdock’s body was fished out of the estuary the next day. Even then, hid gold pocketwatch was still ticking.