Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

By November 1915, the invading forces had reached the River Khstors and sought to force a crossing at Gnizediu, where there were both bridges and a ford. Elements of the Russian Fourth Army defended the town, but were critically short on ammunition and artillery compared to the advancing Germans and Austro-Hungarians. Both the Russian Imperial general staff and the Central Powers regarded the area as a sideshow in view of the massive confusion in the wake of the Gorlice–Tarnów Offensive and the subsequent Russian retreat.

However, the Russian commander in Gnizediu became determined to hold his position upon opening a map and discovering that the city was the last portion of Congress Poland still in Russian hands. Accordingly, he disobeyed the order to retreat and was left at the head of a narrow salient. Scholars contend that the commander, a minor noble, was convinced that his actions would result in greater opportunities after the war. His abilities, and those of his troops, were not up to the task.

Within a week after Central Powers troops entering the area, Gnizediu was cut off from reinforcements after Austro-Hungarian troops crossed the river on barges downstream. The Russian commander, perhaps seeking to inspire his troops, beheaded the emissary sent to request a surrender. This act irritated the besiegers enough that they brought up heavy artillery from operations further west. Gnizediu was subsequently bombarded into rubble.

The Russians eventually mutinied, executed their commander, and attempted to withdraw to the east. Only a handful of troops were able to break through the blockade. While the operation is almost forgotten today, it is notable for the fact that it incurred the highest percentage of Russian casualties (98.5% of the defenders) and the heaviest artillery bombardment (equivalent to two days’ shelling at Verdun) in four years of combat on the Eastern Front.

Originally a conscripted race known as the Jul-Thun, centuries of slavery and genetic tinkering by the Vyaeh have led Executioners to be wholly dependent on their masters for breeding and nutrition. One of two races that serve as internal police within the Vyaeh Empire, Executioners answer directly to agents of the Orphaned Court, the Vyaeh government, and not to local commanders (although they will obey orders that they see as in line with Court policies). As such, they are occasionally seen attacking and killing Vyaeh who are held to be traitors. Executioners are usually assigned to low priority garrisons and small ships.

“Strangely, reports indicate that this creature only fired upon other aliens and never on humans. Due to this, as well as their sinister appearance, the personnel have begun calling them Executioners.”
-Report on the battle of Barnard’s Star

The other race to serve as internal police within the Vyaeh Empire, the Ryteg (commonly referred to as Adjudicators) are a conscripted race added to the Empire relatively recently. As with the Jul-Thun Executioners, the Ryteg Adjudicators are extensively modified through genetic manipulation and cybernetic augmentation when compared to their racial baseline. Their numbers have been increasing of late due to the Orphaned Court’s perception that they are more loyal and adaptable than the Executioners. As such, they are usually assigned to high priority garrisons, large fleets, or as personal guards to fleet commanders, government officials, and even the Court itself. As with the Executioners, Adjudicators are not accountable to local military commanders.

“Defend with your life. Accept no surrender and offer none yourself. In duty is life; in protection, honor; in battle, glory. Serve the Court and you shall be served. Destroy those that betray it and you shall be spared. Work to further it in all things and you will be blessed.”
-Vyaeh manual of arms

Now, they’d told me what to expect during the fourth stage of the xenofever, but “disordered optical sensations” doesn’t really do justice to the sensation. I thought they meant hallucinations.

I was wrong.

At first, the colors were just wrong. One by one the parts of the spectrum descended into anarchy until when I cut my hand I bled lavender and it dried to neon green. That wasn’t so bad, not unlike a few trips I had when experimenting with various substances in my youth.

Next I began to see spots, sometimes in the periphery, other times directly in front of me, where what I was seeing simply didn’t line up with what I knew to be there. moving my head produced movement in the vision, but it was more like a kaleidoscope than anything–and even a kaleidoscope simply mixes and matches the familiar.

This was totally outside the realm of my experience, such that I lack the words to accurately describe it.

Finally, the effect covered my entire field of vision. It was worse than being blind; I was subjected to a bombardment of colors and shapes that somehow took what I was seeing and twisted it into an utterly unrecognizable form.

By that point, I probably would have gouged my eyes out if I hadn’t been restrained.

There was barely time to register the sight of a loose spoke on the front wheel, and less still to compensate for the sudden loss of steering and momentum. Danny tumbled over the handlebars with a yelp, and the light was dashed out of the world.

The next thing he knew was a coppery taste in his mouth, followed by a blinding flare as things came back into focus. The Cannondale was a few feet behind him, bent in several places and scratched in others.

No sign of Steve and his crew. The race was over, and they hadn’t even bothered to come back for Danny when he didn’t make the finish line.

Dragging the mangled remains of the Cannondale, Danny struggled to River Park, leaving a long trail of dusty skidmarks in his wake. He’d carry it as far as the rack near the parking lot, and then leave it there, just like he’d found it, and give up that terrific sensation of riding the world through whizzing gears for good.

There was one car in the lot, parked near the rack—a familiar-looking sedan. The window rolled down as Danny approached it, and a familiar face appeared.

“Kids,” Dad said. “Always think we old-timers are blind and stupid. Well, we see and hear a lot more than you give us credit for. Looks like you got your head handed to you, eh kiddo?”

Danny nodded.

“Well, you put up one hell of a fight,” Dad said. “Building a new bike from scratch? I don’t know if I could do that now, much less at our age.”

“I…I just wanted to go fast,” Danny said. “I wanted to go fast whenever I wanted and feel the wind and see the ground going under me.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can do about that,” Dad said. “Load up what’s left of ‘er. You’ve got a gift, Danny me boy, and I’ve got a feeling you’ll feel that wind and see that ground spinning by again soon enough, on your own terms.”

The drive home wound over roads stained with fallen blackberries and under wide maples that filtered the waxing light of summer through their boughs. The world took on a bit of the heady blur it had carried earlier, and Danny trailed his hand out the window, letting the dusk air spin through his fingers like the tarnished spokes of an old tire.

Ever the optimist, navel-gazer, and science fiction fan, Ben kept a list of “Things to Change While Time Traveling.” It was concise yet specific, offering practical suggestions without offering any reasons:

1. Stay the hell away from Andrea Bellman
2. Leave the 2003 Christmas party exactly one hour earlier
3. Don’t join the fraternity
4. Don’t get in a fistfight with Ralph Gonzaga
5. Ask Paige Charleston for a date before 2007 for crap’s sake
6. Take the job out east
7. Get renter’s insurance and flood insurance before April 2005
8. Don’t buy the Honda
9. Save the Apple stock Aunt Agnes gave you
10. Skip the fishing trip to the gulf coast

Some time later, Ben amended the list with an eleventh item:

11. Prevent self from using a time machine

“And this,” the Omnitron said with a wave of its clawed manipulator, “is Zeke Fiddlewood.”

The new recruit took in the portly man before him, from his stained beater shirt to his long grey greasy hair. “The janitor?”

“Negative. In 1984, a voodoo priestess cursed Zeke when his lawn service ran over her prize azaleas. She condemned him to be ‘as dumb as the day is long.'”

“I believe it. So he’s here to cancel out the rest of the genius?”

“Of course not,” the Omnitron said, its synthesized speech sounding vaguely offended. “The Agency sent him to Antarctica. Now, for six months out of the year, he’s the smartest human being on the planet.”