As you know, the University of Northern Mississippi sports teams are no longer the Fighting Tuscolas. Negotiations for a new mascot are still in committee, so until then we will be known as the University of Northern Mississippi Northern Mississippians.
In keeping with the administration’s pledge to remove all mention of the Tuscola tribe from university life, the practice of random “Cowboys and Indians” squirtgun and sponge-arrow attacks during orientation has been banned. Anyone caught with a squirtgun or cowboy hat will be immediately removed from their orientation position.
There have been complaints that orientation leaders have been attempting to influence students interested in Greek life to pledge Kappa Qoppa Beta. This is completely unacceptable; Alpha Digamma Nu is the only Greek organization that may be mentioned to orientation students. Rumors that this rule has come about due to a large donation from a former Alpha Di are untrue.
The special “legacy orientations” for sisters of Zeta San Iota have gotten mixed up with normal orientation groups in the past and failed to receive the unique experience that they are entitled to. As such, all “legacy” orientation groups will be issued identical bright pink t-shirts to properly segregate them from “non-legacy” ones. We realize that this will make distinguishing between the girls difficult, as they already have identical heights, haircuts, hair colors, and pants, but ask that you please bear with us.
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It wasn’t just that summer vacation was coming to an end, and that life would soon be classrooms and textbooks and waking up early to get dressed. This was Tara’s twelfth summer, and she could see childhood’s end bearing down upon her not far off.
There would be school dances, growth spurts, algebra, and other distasteful things to contend with, combined with the pressures she’d seen unleashed on her older sister. The obsessive desire to act older, to cast off childish aspects and habits…it didn’t excite a dreamy girl who preferred to stomp around the yard and scribble down stories in worn-out notebooks.
Tara’s family had a house on the literal edge of their tiny town, with houses across the street and a relative wilderness to the back, bounded on one side by a farm. The highway, sometimes audible through the trees, had brought development to the east: an ugly mini-mall and fast food joints fused with gas stations. But if she walked in the other direction, Tara could find excitement and stories to be told in the woods.
She set out one day, feeling a strong urge to be outside and muddy among the trees. Her older sister and ostensible babysitter was on the phone with her boyfriend–another accoutrement of growing up that Tara was less than enthusiastic about–so with their parents at work the wold was free and fair even though Tara was theoretically forbidden from going in. But rules were made to be broken, and broken especially in the service of squeezing out a few more honey-yellow drops of summer from the dying light of August.
It was, after all, Tara’s last summer.
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Earth was prepared for a conventional attack, with a network of early warning satellites and nuclear weapons on a hair-trigger alert. It was prepared for an all-out alien invasion the likes of which had long been discussed in Earth literature.
Only the Xanthic didn’t attack that way.
Instead, their agents carefully snuck nanogenetically modified caffeine molecules into the Earth’s supply. Everything from coffee to soda pop to energy drinks was targeted and infiltrated. Then, at the touch of a button, anyone with an iota of caffeine in their system fell instantly unconscious.
In one swift masterstroke, the Xanthic had decapitated Earth’s command and control by incapacitating two-thirds of the adult population in the First World. The non-drinkers were not numerous enough to run the planetary defenses by themselves, and the Second and Third World countries without a critical mass of coffee drinkers were not invested enough in the defense network (thanks to their suspicious neighbors).
Every province and state of NATO and the UN Security Council was swiftly occupied, except for Utah. The rest of the world, starved of imports, swiftly capitulated with only local resistance.
The Xanthic celebrated their victory by buying every human being on Earth a nanogenetically engineered latté and by using their new force of slave laborers to build a massive Cola and Coffee Monument out of gratitude to the humble nonsentient plants which had allowed such a swift takeover.
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In the category of spirits without bodies, we also find the zaar and the abdar. The words come to us from the Horn of Africa, where they are comparatively common, but zaar and abdar (while rare) occur across all nations and ethnic groups. Lacking a physical form, they most often possess inanimate objects of humanoid shape–mannikins, statuary, and such–or assemble a body out of possessed parts like a suit of clothing. They have also been known to expel human souls in order to possess their bodies, and this is the subject of a number of folk traditions. However, it is relatively rare, as inanimate objects are much easier to possess.
Zaar are created when a soul expires in a particularly lonely and bleak way, cut off from kith and kin. Rather than ascending to the next life, it instead acts as a magnet for malevolent spirit energy, concentrating it in an enormously potent form. Due to the circumstances of their genesis, zaar are often drawn to powerfully wicked creatures like daemons, who will employ them as high-ranking servants. It’s unclear what a zaar gets out of such an arrangement other than a kind of twisted surrogate family…and perhaps that is the point. They are universally mischievous, malicious, and deeply ensconced in most dire affairs.
Abdar represent the other side of the coin, with the same powers but rising from the expiration of a soul in a state of extraordinary peace. They draw in positive spirit energy by the same mechanism, but lack the same need for companionship, order, and structure that so often leads zaar to serve more powerful masters. Abdar instead tend to be fiercely independent, offering aid or advice to those in need. They do tend to be somewhat mercurial, and often prefer to guide those in need toward finding their own solutions rather than intervening directly.
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The Old Empire had still been in the midst of experimentation with directed-energy weaponry when the last president was overthrown and the Anarchy began. His successors–presidents, president-emperors, and emperors alike–did not have the funds or the technology base to pursue the research and development involved, especially given how badly the polity had splintered. A number of weapons were fielded, but the incredibly complex nature of their ammunition–portable power cells, mostly–limited their use, as emperors and tinhorn despots held their meager stockpiles back.
As such, the only directed-energy weapon to see major use during the Anarchy and the post-Anarchy was the Palomino Model 70, commonly known as the Sunmaker. Produced by Palomino Arms for the civilian marketplace, the Sunmaker was unique in that it could accept power from an outstanding variety of sources. A wall adaptor plug-in allowed places with a functioning electrical grid to simply connect their Sunmakers to the mains to defend strong points. It would accept almost any portable battery on the market with the proper and easily-swappable adaptor; one popular adaptor allowed it to use commercial alkaline batteries, though six such batteries were only good for one or two low-power shots at best.
The form factor of the Palomino Sunmaker was also important. Oh, there was a lot to like about the integrated optic sight which doubled as an accessory rail, or the big triggerguard/handguard that could accomodate users wearing heavy gloves. But the sleekness of the design, its sharklike profile in black plastic and ceramic composites…unnecessary from a design standpoint, but brilliant from a marketing one. Hefting the weapon made someone used to guns that shot bullets feel like they were on the cutting edge…and starting down the lens of one was intimidating.
Sheriff Stevens had agreed to bend the law of his ditchwater burg in exchange for a Palomino Sunmaker still in its box. It seemed like a good idea at the time…
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I used to come here as a child, but not to appreciate it. This park was my playground, site of pirate adventures and long-winded fantasy stories that never existed anywhere but between my ears. While the other kids preferred the swings or slides or sports field, for me it was always the trail, the bridge, the river bubbling merrily past.
When a person reaches a certain age, they find themselves returning more and more often to these places of memory. I’ve been back in person, but more often than not I return solely in my memory. The sunlight is stronger, the shadows darker, and the possibilities broader. I can be any age, any person, anywhere, so long as it is through the lens of an eight-year-old wearing an old blazer like a pirate coat.
It’s sad, devastatingly sad, that those days are now fixed like graven statues in the past. At the time, it seemed like that world was there, always there, forever for the asking and the taking. At times it seems almost unfair that those days nearly twenty years ago have cast such a long and deep shadow over the rest of my life, that all my years since are like a faded daguerreotype beside their brilliance.
As we age, it’s only natural to look back with regret; regret is in many ways the most human of emotions, the longing tug that connects us to our pasts. There are times when I feel I’d trade anything to go back and do it over again, do it right this time.
And then there are times when I just wish I could live it over again, the riverside trails and my childish games unchanged for all the time I’ve mulled them over.
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The FossilCo convenience store (a division of GesteCo) was one of the larger ones in town, full of people at all hours. Mostly people passing through town on I-313 or students at the university across the way buying food to satiate their stoner cravings. I expected to find the usual half-dozen customers inside, shakily recovering from the massive blast of sound I had inadvertently released from GesteCo (as an “experiment”). I was stunned to speechlessness instead.
The interior of the FossilCo convenience store was painted a very bright, cheery yellow. Was shocking in and of itself? No. But it accented the shocking sights I saw within.
Someone was tearing through the stores of snack foods near the window, ceaselessly shoving them down a maw that was already discolored with food additives and leftovers. They tore at the packaging with their teeth, shoveling the quasi-food matter in with both hands despite the pile of wrappers that had already accumulated about their ankles and a noticeable distension of their stomach. Another person was engaged in the same, pounding at an oven at the counter to get the pizza within. Both of them looked terribly…well, jaundiced, would probably be the best word. There was a definite sallow and yellow cast to their skin that all but matched the FossilCo walls.
A bang from behind the counter startled me; I looked over to see someone pounding at the cash register with the same manic energy. It gave way as I watched, and the sallow customer threw themselves on the scattered quarters and dollar bills, shrieking in delight as they shoved low-value coinage into their pockets. The register couldn’t have had more than $20 total in it, but they were howling like they’d won the lottery. Just visible beyond them were a pair of customers, one store employee and one long-haul trucker, both making out furiously. The level of PDA was shocking; I had to turn away as the bile rose in my throat.
Customers seemed to have simply sat down to busy themselves with staring at the imitation linoleum floor, too. They gaped with blank looks on their faces as the others pirouetted about them in their madness. I saw one come up and violently rip a purse from one of their hands, meeting no resistance, only to discard it a moment later in favor of trying to pry a bag of Pork Cracklins from one of the frenzied eaters. When they did so, the customer immediately lost all interest in the item and let it fall, fixing their jaundiced gaze on something else one of their insane fellows held.
Needless to say, I wasn’t going in.
“Were you looking at my car?” I jumped at the sound. A customer who had been outside filling up had come up behind me, beaming from his bizarrely discolored face. “Yes, I can see why. She’s a beaut, best vehicle this site of the state capitol.”
I looked at the rustbucket she was indicating. “Ah…sure?”
“Only the best for thebesttodriveIalwayssayandI’mthebest!” her babbling boasting increased to such a pitch that the words were slurred together.
But it was the other driver who had been filling up that posed the real problem. He charged at me, screaming like a banshee and wielding a tire iron in once jaundiced hand.
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FINCHER: Viewers will of course remember the interview I had with Gustafson before he set out last year.
[jump cut to older footage of GUSTAFSON and FINCHER in a studio]
GUSTAFSON: Known as La Ciudad Oscura, The Dark City, people most often dismiss it as a fairy tale comparable to the Seven Cities of Gold, El Dorado, Quivira, or Cíbola. You can imagine how detrimental associations like that are to any kind of legitimate scholarly inquiry! People see it as a time-wasting delusion on par with the Money Pit on Oak Island.
FINCHER: And what about Franklin Shire, the explorer you’re following?
GUSTAFSON: Franklin Shire is an interesting case–fascinating, really, for the number of unanswered questions it raises. He wasn’t a trained explorer but rather a journalist who searched the upper reaches of the Wampá River in Guatemala for the truth behind the legend with a friend and a few guides. He was unusually diligent for someone with no field experience, and tried his best to root out the oral history of the area.
FINCHER: Like what?
GUSTAFSON:Well, for one thing, people who actually live there don’t associate the city with any kind of wealth, as the conquistadors did. Rather, they view it as a decadent and rightfully punished former civilization, and a warning to any who would seek too much influence over nature, hence why the area was swallowed up by the jungle.
FINCHER: So what did Shire find?
GUSTAFSON:It’s one of the great mysterious episodes of amateur archaeology. Shire returned saying that he had found La Ciudad Oscura, but he insisted on calling it the City of the Lizard God because of the giant lizard statuary he claimed was present there. The thing is, Shire and his team brought back over five hundred artifacts to substantiate their claim, but the lack of any photographs, and inconclusive provenance of the things they did bring, led to a lot of ridicule. The whole Lizard God thing probably didn’t help; the press had a field day.
FINCHER: And Shire wasn’t able to appease them by having his discovery confirmed.
GUSTAFSON:Shire never had a chance to return to the area or give more information; he was so stung by the criticism that he committed suicide in 1938, less than a year after he returned. His companion died of dysentery before they even left Guatemala, and their porters were stood up against a wall by General Ubico after Shire’s promised bribes fell through. No one was ever told of the exact location Shire claimed for his find.
FINCHER: But you’ve said that your team, which sets out next month, has some important advantages.
GUSTAFSON:We’ve collated all available sources, including recollections written by the porters before their deaths, Shire’s notes, and extensive tests on the artifacts he brought back. If nothing else, our expedition will be able to show once and for all if there was any merit to Shire’s claims.
[jump cut back to FINCHER]
FINCHER: Authorities in Guatemala and the United States officially declared Gustafson’s team missing today, having had no contact with them since a satellite telephone call nearly six months ago.
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1-555-789-3λ69 had obviously been meant as a secret check-in for someone called 2476, related to some kind of experiment on GesteCo’s part. My incessant curiosity had led me to ferret that out easily enough, and people in down did whisper about the company’s supposedly bizarre and unethical practices. I had never engaged in such whispering because I entertained thoughts of getting a job with them, and unethical pays very, very well.
As I stood there in the lot of the FossilCo Fuels (a division of GesteCo, naturally) on the corner of 3rd and East, with a dead (and disgusting) payphone handset squeezed lamely in one mitt, I felt a shiver at the ominousness of the synthesized voice’s pronouncement. The experiment will now begin.
Moments later, that and all other thoughts were blasted out of my head by an incredibly loud noise. It started as a low whine, almost like a jet engine, before ascending in several terrifying irregular crescendos, like some sort of a steam whistle magnified to a terrifying volume and timbre. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from; all I could do was double over and clap my hands to my ears in a helpless attempt to keep the sound out. A different but equally painful tone issued through the handset, now swinging freely, but I all but ignored it–what other choice did I have?
Eventually, I was able to bring myself to stand up. I instinctively staggered over to the FossilCo convenience store, not really sure what I hoped to accomplish. What I saw inside shocked me to my very core.
Construction of a new airport on the small Japanese island of Musuko-Tō involved flattening a few small spurs of the craggy central highland peaks, and was begin in earnest in 1977. However, the project quickly ground to a halt when a subterranean chamber hollowed out of the rock was uncovered by one of the blasts. A team from Edo University was dispatched to investigate, with the authorities presuming that they had uncovered one of the fortifications collapsed by the Imperial defenders or the American invaders during the 1944 battle for the island.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
The Edo University team, led by Dr. Elizabeth Keiko Oshiro, discovered a very elaborate complex with a 1,600 cubic meter central chamber (with dimensions of 14 by 5 by 3 meters), complete with a 45,000 liter water cistern which caught freshwater from several mountain streamlets above. The subterranean chambers also included tunnels which led to a series of cunningly disguised observation posts overlooking the Musuko-Tō harbor, the old wartime airstrip, and other strategic locations. A portal which had once linked the new discoveries with the combat tunnels was also located: it had been bricked up and camouflaged to blend in, presumably to hide it from any Americans who might penetrate the defenses.
But it was the letters and personal papers Dr. Oshiro discovered that told of the real tragedy of Cave 97.
Written by two Kempeitai, 1st Lieutenant Ketsuo Nashimura and Sergeant Nobuoyuki Yakaguchi, the papers told of how the complex had been prepared once an American invasion was imminent, with volunteers literally sealed inside it with a supply of food and water. They were expected to use the viewports to spy on Allied troop and ship movements and report the same using a shortwave radio. The idea had been to leave them behind enemy lines as spies of a sort, to prepare for the inevitable Imperial retaking of the island.
Instead, the complex became their tomb. Dr. Oshiro determined that their shortwave antenna had been installed incorrectly, leaving it unable to send or receive signals. Unaware of this, and under orders not to commit suicide, the occupants had dutifully transmitted reports that were never heard until their supplies of food had given out in mid-1951 and the men had quietly stared to death.
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Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 