Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

It was inevitable, really. The proliferation of cheap, powerful, highly caffeinated coffee drinks in the late 1990s and 2000s led to an arms race in which major corporations and minor mom and pop beaneries competed to perfect their products. Eventually, through the addition of liberal amounts of real or artificial sweeteners, incredibly strong coffees were made palatable to even the most wretched dilettantes and hipsters. Through habitual use and the gradual buildup of tolerance, it became possible for devotees to safely attain caffeine concentrations once thought impossible or toxic.

At higher tolerances and with supersized portions of powerful new coffee drinks (often full of sugar as well), java hounds were able to perceive the world at a fraction of its true speed thanks to massively overstimulated hearts, endocrine systems, and so on. At first, this talent was largely used for party tricks or in emergencies, such as rescuing people from rapidly spreading fires. But it quickly became apparent that there were far greater applications possible, and the martial art of 咖啡拳 (Kafei Quan, literally “Coffee Fist”) was born.

Recognizing that the jitters that accompanied heavy coffee use, to say nothing of the speed of Kafei Quan movments,made using traditional weapons very difficult. Practitioners soon seized on steel and aluminum coffee mugs as ideal weapons, being readily available in cafes and by design suitable for use by the ridiculously overcaffeinated. Use of coasters as (albeit wildly inaccurate) throwing weapons and ornate metal coffee stirrers coated not with poison but with decaf spread as well. By 20XX, every cafe of respectable size included an adjacent Kafei Quan dojo. Enthusiasts practiced the popular Topless Mermaid style favored by global conglomerate Stubb’s Coffee, the Everlasting Miasma style employed by rival Tacoma’s Best Coffee, or one of hundreds of smaller cafe-specific styles.

Of course, a careful rereading of the prophetic Wan Nian Ke and Cang Tou texts of ancient China and the so-called “cafe quatrains” of Nostradamus indicated a far more sinister outcome of the Kafei Quan craze. They told of a fallen barista who would unleash the Darkest of the Dark Roasts, corrupting the Kafei Quan into a tool with which to subjugate all humanity and not just dilettantes and hipsters.

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“All right, I officially call the Society for the Creation and Dissemination of Conspiracy Theories to order,” said One. “As you can see in your agenda, first we have some status updates about the theories that were specifically discussed at our last meeting. Two?”

Two stood and read from a paper. “Since the last meeting, we’ve seen strong growth in the number of believers in our previously moribund Electric Car Suppression Conspiracy and Water Fluoridation as Vector for Evil Conspiracy. Increases are in the area of five to ten percent.”

“Impressive,” said Four from the other side of the table. “I take it that the steps you took were successful?”

“Never underestimate the effect of a few good websites and ‘independent’ documentary films,” said Two.

“Excellent. We also have a progress report coming on some of the new theories that were mooted at the last meeting,” One said. “Ten?”

“We’ve gotten decent traction on the Zombie Apocalypse Is Coming But Governments Are Suppressing It Conspiracy,” said Ten. “We were able to pounce on some serendipitous news stories and spin them as Three and Seven suggested.”

“And the other?”

Ten shook his head. “Uptake on the Cats Are Plotting To Kill Us All conspiracy has been rather low, which my sources attribute either to widespread positive consensus among cat haters and widespread cat ownership among cat lovers. The only appreciable success has been in the Middle East, where 3 out of 10 people now believe that stray cats are being used by the Mossad for spying.”

One smiled. “Always good in a pinch, that Mossad. Try spreading around the real-world results of Operation Acoustic Kitty to see if we can’t get that up to 7 out of 10.”

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“Why, over there we have Thel’Qan of the Forest Elves which some call the Fair Folk.” Boggs looked over at the elf, whose long ears drooped, had a nose big enough for its own fiefdom, slouching problems that could be from sciatica or a lifetime of bad posture, and hellacious acne. He smiled kindly, revealing the kind of twisted and gapped teeth that Boggs had rarely seen outside of the Kingdom of Bretagnia.

“He’s not exactly fair, is he?”

“Which is why his own luminous and ostensibly enlightened people cast him out,” said Syrris. “And next to him you can see Urg-Olug the troll.”

Urg-Olug nodded politely and sipped at a teacup. His stringy purple hair had been carefully coiffed into the respectable Francya style and he wore spectacles over his dead-looking bluish-black eyes. His brown nails were carefully groomed, and he was dressed as a Francyan gentleman in the latest style.

“Let me guess,” Boggs said. “His people cast him out because he tried to be stylish?”

“No,” Syrris said. “Because he’s a vegetarian. Let’s see, who else have we got in the common area today…ah, yes! Over in the corner we have a former member of the Theives Guild, Manaya Quickfingers.”

Boggs thought that the lithe if plain woman was pilfering books from the common area library, but on closer inspection she was actually replacing and alphabetizing them. “She’s a little on the obsessive side,” Syrris said. “She feels compelled to return objects to their rightful place, which as you can imagine didn’t sit so well with the Guild.”

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Aged Chief Justice Marshall rose and read from a paper. “In the case of Worcester v. Georgia, the court finds in favor of Worcester by a vote of five yeas, one concurrence, and one nay.”

A murmur ran through the audience; the President would not be pleased with such a ruling. But the loudest complaint came from the front row, where a robed man rose and cried “”John Marshall has made his decision; now let him enforce it!” He then cast off his robe to reveal President Jackson, resplendent in his old military uniform.

Marshall, 77 years old and ill with bladder stones, rose from the bench. He removed his bifocals, his rheumy eyes narrowing. “Very well,” he said.

At his signal seven of the other eight justices rose in unison; Henry Baldwin remained seated, dissenting now as he had before. “Enforce the decision!” Marshall cried.

Justice McLean, who had concurred with the opinion but for reasons of his own, struck first. He pirouetted over the bench, long robes flowing gracefully, and lunged at the President with a drawn gavel. Jackson ducked backwards, fluidly avoiding the blow; he brought a hand up an instant later and struck the gavel from McLean’s hand. Off-balance, the justice found himself locked in a hold by the President, who then flung him roughly into the galleries where he shattered a bench on landing.

Jackson had used only a single arm to defend himself, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. He extended his arm abd beckoned the other justices tauntingly on.

Infuriated, Marshall banged his gavel; justices Johnson, Duvall, Story, and Thompson attacked as one. The first three vaulted over the bench much like McLean had, while Thompson instead made a 10-yard vertical jump toward the chandelier. With a single hand as before, Jackson swatted Johnson aside, striking him on the throat, sweeping his legs out from under him, and then seizing his judicial robes and flinging him at the others. Duvall dodged the flying, flailing Johnson and swept behind the President, seizing both his arms as Story attempted to pummel him into submission.

President Jackson kicked himself off the floor, planting both boots on Story’s chest and then giving him a mighty kick, which had the dual effect of launching Story through one of the chamber windows and somersaulting the President over Duvall’s back. With that momentum, Jackson was able to blast Duvall through the domed ceiling; there was a distant splash as the Justice landed in the Potomac.

At that moment, Thompson descended from the chandelier. As he picked up speed, he cast open his robes to reveal eight razor-sharp silver gavels clutched between his fingers. Jackson bobbed and weaved as the weapons buried themselves in the chamber floor, but was struck a glancing blow by Thompson when he landed. Jackson quickly regained his balance and somersaulted up to the vistor gallery, where he perched by his bootheels on one of the railings.

Enraged, Thompson produced more gavels and flung them in a whirling metal storm of death. Jackson, finally deigning to use his other hand, unsheathed his sword and swatted each of the hundreds of projectiles aside easily, diverting them back toward their source. The flat of one blade struck Thomspon on the bridge of his nose and he collapsed, unconscious.

President Jackson held out his saber, pointing it at Marshall in a defiant gesture. “Let him enforce it!”

The Chief Justice shot up, not leaping so much as flying, and landed on Jackson’s very blade, balancing easily on the razor edge. From somewhere deep in his robes he unsheathed the golden two-handed Ur-Gavel, richly engraved with eagles, crackling with raw judicial energy. According to legend, it could not be resheathed without establishing constitutional precedent.

The two men regarded each other for a moment, and then the real battle began.

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Aureliana Aldalgisa came not from the aristocratic Old Families or the plebian Newtowners but the grey space in between, people with enough of the Gift to succeed in the bureaucracy of the Sorcerous Republick but without the connections or influence to make that possible. Her ancestors included a member of the Council, albeit one who had served only briefly and resigned under a cloud, as well as a prominent revolutionary in the failed Newtown Uprising. With a father in Republick service as a clerk, a mother who taught basic cantrips at a local finishing school, and three older sisters, Aureliana would have seemed destined for a minor teaching assignment, a civil service post, or a life as a homemaker.

One wouldn’t have expected her to become one of the most notorious sorcerous criminals in the Republick.

A voracious reader with natural talents in the Gift that far outstripped her family and peers, Aureliana was frequently left unsupervised and had little opportunity to distinguish herself without powerful connections. She turned inward instead, researching arcane lore and eventually various forbidden arts, mostly in the areas of divination and transfiguration. Investigators from the Republick Bureau believe that Aureliana’s original plan was to abduct a member of an Old Family and assume their place, using her increasingly sophisticated and dark skills to maintain the charade.

Working out of a squalid apartment she had purchased, Aureliana’s first attempt apparently met with disaster. Rather than allowing her to assume the aspect and knowledge of victims (mostly members of minor Old Families who had fallen from grace and were eking out livings in Newtown), they were instead reduced to incorporeal shades with only the barest connection to the material world in the form of a small quantity of “essential salts.”

Based on the Bureau’s investigation, they believe that Aureliana became obsessed with the unintended consequences of her sorcery and the absolute control it offered over the shades of her victims. There were 35 vials of “essential salts” in her possession when she was apprehended after a lengthy investigation; while the disappearances had piqued the Bureau’s interest, it wasn’t until she attempted to send a shade out into the city that Aureliana was discovered. Her ultimate ambition, it seems, remained the same.

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The precinct doors flew open, and a squat figure entered flanked by uniformed officers (well, perhaps they were more following than flanking, given how much of the corridor the man took up). An officer offered him a chair opposite the negotiation team; the man shook his head and pointed to a nearby loveseat, the one that had been in the office ever since Josie in dispatch had been pregnant. When it was wrestled into place, the man settled into it like an oversized armchair, leaving little room on either side.

“Sherman Gregward?” Chief Strong said.

The man tossed his head, with its dark hair thinning in front and gathered into a ponytail in back. “That’s me. Sherwood Greg, if you prefer. Collector, scholar, dungeon master, level 24 elven sorceress, and head of the Council of Twelve and overall coordinator for Nerdicon.”

“Mr. Gregward,”Strong said. “I assume you’ve heard about the events at SciCon earlier today?”

“SciCon’s a competitor, but a respected one,” Sherwood Greg replied. “I’ve deigned to attend on occasion, when campaigning is slow. I hear they went and got their guest of honor kidnapped.”

“Nestor Pressman, who played…” Strong looked at the sheet in front of him. “Captain Why of Timeship Omega in the 1983-87 tv series TimeTrek Wars.”

“Don’t patronize me, captain,” Greg sniffed.” I know Pressman. He was at Nerdicon three times before he went to the other side.”

“We’re had no luck in finding the kidnapper or kidnappers, and the demands that were left for us are, well, incomprehensible.”

“So you brought in an expert. Smart.” Greg waved an outstretched hand; Strong gave him a copy of the dossier with the cut and paste ransom note:

BR1|\|9 Ph1\/3 |-|U|\|DR3D 7|-|0U54|\|D d0LL4R5 (45|-| 4 (0/\/\PL373 1985 5(1-(0|\| (0/\/\/\/\3/\/R471\/3 (0LL3(710|\| 7|-|3 L057 3P150D3 0Ph 71/\/\3-7R3|<-\/\/4R5 4|\|D 4LB3R7 /\/\3LL5731|\|'5 5(R33|\| 7357 Ph0R (R'/P7 r0BB3R 70 7|-|3 (17'/ bU5 73R/\/\1|\|4L b'/ 319|-|7 70/\/RR0\/\/ 0R pR355/\/\4|\| 15 0U7 0Ph 71/\/\3

“It’s gibberish,” Strong said.

Greg glanced at it. “Bring $500,000 cash, a complete 1985 SciCon commemorative collection, the lost episode of TimeTrek Wars and Albert Mellstein’s screen test for Crypt Robber to the city bus terminal by eight tomorrow or Pressman is out of time,” he read.

“H-how did you…?”

“Child’s play. I’ve decoded leetspeak twice as hardcore before second breakfast. And before you ask: the 1985 SciCon commemorative collection is a legendarily rare swag bag from the first convention of which only 5 are known to exist, the lost episode of TimeTrek Wars was filmed but never edited just before the series was canceled in 1987 with only a few black and white stills known to survive, and after he won an Oscar Albert Mellstein was so anxious to cover up that he tried out for the lead of Crypt Robber that he bought and publically burned the negative.”

Strong’s jaw hung agape.

“See? You picked the right man for the job. Also, that last bit? Captain Why’s catchphrase was ‘we’re never out of time’ in the show. You’re welcome.”

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“You selfish, self-important bastard!” Konrad the navigator cried. “You’d put the lives of our entire crew, and their families, in the hands of that…thing? That computer? I refuse to have any part in the dismantling of my bridge!”

“Please, Alik,” Captain Lebedev said. “There’s no need for this.”

“There is!” Konrad roared, stabbing a finger at Berenty. “Surely there is! We’ve put up with this bully for too long, all of us! Now the safety of this ship—of your families—is at risk! Who else will stand up with me?”

Berenty said nothing; there was a curiously neutral expression on his face.

“Step down, you fool,” Lebedev hissed at Konrad.

“No, I will not!” continued Konrad. “I’ve seen enough! Good men turned into lapdogs, just like in the old days, armed men down every corridor, and the stink of fear for everyone. You, Grisha Sergeyevich Berenty, will be the death of everyone aboard.”

“You are correct,” Berenty said, suddenly. He shrugged.

“What?” said Konrad.

Lebedev later theorized that Berenty’s shrug must have been a prearranged signal, for the next moment Korenchkin had unlimbered his AKS and leveled it at Konrad. He snapped off a tight burst of shots, filling the room with a deafening report and an overwhelming stink of gunpowder. Konrad’s chest was reduced to a swamp of frothy blood; the navigator toppled to the floor without a sound.

“No!” Lebedev cried. He rushed to his fallen officer and tried to step the flow of blood with his own crumpled captain’s jacket, but it was too late. Konrad had bled to death and the light had gone out of his eyes after no more than a few seconds.

“Yes, he was correct!” Berenty shouted. “I will indeed be the death of everyone aboard if they do not do as they are told! I will be the death of every traitor, every malcontent, every wrecker the miserable lot of you has to offer! We are engaged in a great work here, and every one of us is expendable to further the cause!”

Thick hands seized the captain’s collar and hauled him upright. “You and your crew will be retained as advisors in case of a temporary malfunction of the Elbrus,” said Berenty. “Unless, of course, any of you feel some solidarity with the late Officer Konrad?”

Burning, seething hatred bubbled at the captain’s temples and threatened to turn his vision red. But with great effort, he restrained himself—it would do no good for anyone if he were to end up like Konrad. “No, colonel,” Lebedev said, almost in a monotone.

“Are you sure of that, captain?” asked Berenty. “You seemed rather emotional a moment ago when your man got his nine grams ten times over.”

“I have never lost a man under my command,” Lebedev said. “I fear for how his rash actions will reflect upon me.”

Berenty grinned. “Worry not, captain! Your own conduct has been exemplary. Get yourself cleaned up.”

“Yes, colonel,” said Lebedev, and he slunk away to his quarters—beaten, but alive. From his window, he saw Mikoyan and Korenchkin fling Konrad’s body into the sea, and bitter, helpless tears burned on his cheeks.

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“Come in, come in.” The manager was an orc; that much was clear even without looking at him. He had a UV light near his desk to help nourish the chloroplasts that gave his skin its deep emerald hue, and had a small but functional shield—more a targe, really—painted with his clade’s distinctive glyph was hung prominently on the wall.

As he rose to greet Sheniqua she could see a small, dull axe—about tomahawk size— dangling from his belt. That and the targe represented him following the letter of the Hamurabash if not its spirit: an orcish male or unmarried female was always to carry their axe and have their shield close by.

“Now, Ms. Washington, what can I do for you?” This particular orc, a Mr. Shamash to judge from his name plate, had apparently gone to greater lengths than most to function comfortably within a polyspecies world. He’d either filed down or removed the large canine teeth, so necessary for proper Hamuraorg speech, that made many orcs appear to slobber or growl when they tried to speak other languages. Shamash had given himself a speech impediment among his own people to communicate better with outsiders.

He also had close-cropped, well-groomed (if receding) hair. While there was nothing in the Hamurabash about one’s hair, cultural traditions led most orcs to take an all-or-nothing approach, either letting their hair grow unchecked and dreadlocked or keeping it shaven billiard-smooth. With a little foundation makeup and a bit of nose putty, he could have passed for human or perhaps half-dwarf.

Sheniqua couldn’t help but wonder if she would be willing to live under the strictures of the Hamurabash or use a dental prosthesis to give out bank loans in the orc homeland.

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Irene Keruk Qikiqtagruk was seated in a rocking chair, wrapped in a shawl and threadbare quilts. She smiled at the guests, bright eyes shining behind thick glasses seeming to belong to a woman much younger than 101.

“I’ll put some tea on,” her granddaughter said. “Give you a moment alone. But like I told you, she doesn’t speak much anymore. And never of the…unpleasantness.”

Adrienne sat down on the couch nearby and gestured for the others to find seats. “That’s a lovely quilt you’ve got there,” she said, gesturing to Irene’s wrappings. “Did you make that?”

“It is kind of you to pretend to care about my old sewing.” Irene’s voice was soft but surprisingly deep, issuing from some great well in her weak frame. “You hope to get me talking and turn things to the unpleasantness. It is the way of all the more considerate people who come to visit.”

The reporter’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose there’s not much I can say to change your mind, is there?”

Irene’s expression turned thoughtful. “When I walked however many miles it was over the ice, after everyone had died, I promised myself that I would never speak of what had happened as long as I lived.” She laughed. “I did not expect it to be so long. It’s been almost ten years since the last person came to ask, and somehow I do not think I will last another ten. Tell me what you know, and I will think about filling in some of the blank spots.”

“You, your parents, and your uncle were recruited by a Canadian man to participate in the Imperial Arctic Expedition of 1914,” Adrienne said carefully. “Your ship was trapped in ice, drifted into Russian waters, and crushed. There was…unpleasantness…among the expedition members, and you and your parents followed a group to Kellett Island while the others made for Tikegen Island. You walked nearly fifty miles to Tikegen, alone, nearly a year later to find the others just before they were rescued by an American icebreaker, and you refused to discuss what had happened.”

Irene laughed. “You are too kind in leaving out the juiciest part,” she said over the whistle of a teakettle in the kitchen. “When they searched Kellett Island, they found what was left of the people who I had departed with. All dead, even though they had shelter and supplies enough to last a whole year.”

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“Sid Fleek, Majordomo Used Motors.” Sid’s smile was casual, natural, unlike the forced leer of most used car salesmen. “I bet you’re thinking that it would take a pretty cold day in Hell to get you driving one of these junkers for free, much less paying for one.”

The customer nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Like a Florida citrus grove,” Sid continued. “Lemons everywhere, none that would even get you to the grocery store on a Sunday.”

“I dunno, that Volvo doesn’t look as bad as, say, that Chevy,” the customer said, indicating a rustbucket Vega on lot’s edge.

Fifteen minutes later, he was leaving the lot in the driver’s seat of that selfsame Volvo as Sid finished the paperwork with a flourish.

“How do you do it, Sid?” Dean Fleidermann, one of the transport drivers, said. “That Volvo’s got a bad transmission and a cooling system that’s older than Betty White but with fewer active fans.”

“The secret is making them think it’s their idea. Just like with women. And children. And the elderly. And pansexual life partners. And animals.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s skill. So why are you slumming it at Majordomo? You don’t even make enough here to stay afloat; where’s that you’re moonlighting these days?”

“Bernstein Bros. Towing and Repossession Services. We take nice things from deadbeats who don’t like paying for them. I get to sneak around, unarmed, and repo the shit out of everything from diamonds to Mitsubishi Diamantes.”

“That sounds like the worst job in the world, man. You really need to grab the classifieds some day. “Dean wandered off, still shaking his head.

The cell in Sid’s desk rang. Not his personal phone, or his business phone. The other phone.

“We’ve got a client who wants a cherry Chrysler TC, red, with less than 100,000 miles acquired as soon as possible,” a voice said. “Pay is 100k with a 20k bonus for speed if you can get it by the end of the week. No questions asked; customer will generate title and paperwork if necessary.”

“A TC…Maserati body with a Detroit engine. Worst of both worlds.”

“Apparently it’s a gift. Client’s brother always wanted one and turns 50 next week.”

“I’m in. Drop the details at the usual location.” Sid ended the call. Selling used cars and repossessing things may not be glamorous, he mused, but they kept his edge sharp for the real work to be done.

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