Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

One of the enduring mysteries surrounding Quantum Coffee LLC GmbH of Dimension X has been its lack of an alkaline beverage counterpart to its famous low-pH molecular acid CaustiCoffee™. Its use by the Hegemony to degrime hyperspace engines of dark matter residue aside, CaustiCoffee™ has been elevated to the status of a cultural touchstone by the Rypl and the 4Ploq. Sales have been strong despite the fact that it eats through most life forms like a starving man through a buffet.

But the multiverse is just as full of creatures with a strongly alkaline or basic biochemistry. The $%^& of $%^&lith, for example, require an environment with a 14 pH to survive; they slip into a coma and die at 13.999. The hyperspace-native merchant race known as the Squibbians require strongly alkaline food, and their 17-foot-tall lopsided and betentacled forms are a common sight on hyperspace-aware worlds and trading stations. One might also single out the Northuos, a race unfairly maligned as interdimensional crime lords when only 87% of them practice that vocation, who find a high-pH soak-and-rub to be invigorating.

And yet Quantum Coffee LLC GmbH only produced BaseBrew™ Coffee for a few years, from Multiversal Standard Interval 1337 to MSI 1340. Their marketing efforts, including free magnetic containment cups to keep the alkaline beverage from corroding away ordinary mugs, slick TV commercials featuring L47-P the WisecrackBot, and sponsorship of the HyperBowl, all came to naught. Sales remained in the septic tank, so much so that some Quantum affiliates had dropped it within two weeks of “B-Day,” its much-heralded rollout.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Well, doc, I keep having these strange symptoms.”

“Strange in what way?”

“Well, I keep slaying the living and draining their still warm bodies of blood and other fluids with hypodermic fangs. I have developed a severe aversion to sunlight, running water, strongly-presented holy symbols, and slivers of wood.”

“When did these symptoms begin?”

“Not long after Dr. Hardtmann prescribed me Wampiria™, the Once-Daily Pill for Mild to Severe Rheumatoid Porphyric Hemophilia.”

“Did you have Mild to Severe Rheumatoid Porphyric Hemophilia?”

“No, but he prescribed it just in case, as a placebo.”

“That, in a nutshell, is why we can’t have good antibiotics anymore, my friend.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Kiro gingerly approached the smouldering wreck, his Type 193 assault rifle held ready. The crash appeared to have been relatively low speed and controlled until the final flip which tore the vehicle apart; the volatile fuel had been jettisoned and there was no fire to warm the frigid air, only thin plumes of smoke from tiny electrical fires.

“Received and confirmed, Patrol-27,” came the voice in his ear. “Support group is inbound.”

“How long before support arrival?” Kiro said.

“ETA is twenty sidereal minutes plus or minus ten, Patrol-27,” said Dispatch. “Orders are as follows: secure site if practical, eliminate any hostiles if practical, claim any valuables if practicable. Keep channel open and relay any observations.”

“Received and confirmed, Dispatch,” said Kiro. He began moving gingerly into the wreckage–he knew as well as anybody that when Dispatch relayed orders from Command ‘if practical,’ it was one’s duty to attempt them or die an honorable death in trying to do so. Promotion or death–those were the twin horns of Kiro’s dilemma, and beneath his practiced military exterior his heart glowed like a firelit jade at the prospect.

“Craft appears to be a Matsuhita Type 201,” he said, moving toward it. The Type 201 transport ship was long out of service with the Imperial Armed Forces in favor of the Type 210, but it was still used by the seperatists and their disloyal allies.

The hull was fractured in several places, allowing easy ingress, and Kiro soon saw that the craft had split in two, spilling much of its cargo onto the tundra. “Craft has catastrophic hull breach, no immediate danger. Cargo appears to be chiefly foodstuffs and non-reactive supplies.” That part was surprising, considering how starved the insurgents were for weapons. Almost every other Mastuhita Type 201 knocked out by Imperial batteries exploded violently as its munitions detonated.

“Hang, on, Dispatch. Have observed unusual item in intact section of cargo bay.” Kiro was drawn to an eerie light of uncertain and varicolor hue; approaching, he saw that a heavy-duty transport container had been smashed open by the crash, but that it had been padded by surrounding crates which had clearly been meant to conceal it. Bodies of a small but well-armed guards contingent surrounded it, in poses that suggested they had given their lives to protect the cargo.

The item itself defied desciption.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Drake tapped quietly on the terrarium, causing the scorpions within to skitter about on the leaf litter. “Have I ever told you why I enjoy keeping scorpions as pets?” he said.

“I would imagine because they are venomous and fearsome, not to be trifled with,” said Sanchez evenly, giving the answer he thought was both correct and flattering.

“That is what I most often hear, but it is not so,” said Drake, still riveted on the terrarium. “Did you know that the courtship of a scorpion is a dance? They interlock their claws and move about, almost like a waltz. It can last up to a day, and they are the only creatures–other than humans–to court in this way. They will even kiss each other, if you watch closely–not even apes will do this.”

“I did not know that,” said Sanchez. “That’s…fascinating.”

“And, furthermore, did you know that they are among the few arthropods that will care for their young?” Drake continued. “The scorplings are darling, little white gems with ruby eyes, and their mother will tenderly carry and care for them until they age and darken, ready for life on their own. But she is a wary mother, and they are wary children and wary suitors besides, because the possibility for betrayal is always there. The female may devour the male, and the child may seek to devour the mother; they are always prepared to defend themselves against those they hold dearest.”

“A prudent strategy,” Sanchez said.

“That is why I keep them. They remind me of the beauty of love, of the dance, of parenthood. Like them, I seek to nurture those who have placed themselves under my protection. Like them, I will not hesitate to kill even my dearest should they betray me. Like them, I am always prepared for that possibility as much as I may regret it.”

“I see,” said Sanchez. Then, in a moment of boldness, he added: “So am I to be protected, then? Or stung?”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Quickly, quickly,” said “Doctor” Strauß. “We have only a few moments before the effects wear off.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” groused Müller. He had been employed by Strauß and the Stuttgart Biergarten in central Kowloon for over a year, and he knew that the drugs slipped into the bar patron’s drinks wore off quickly, and that he had to attach the that didn’t keep the good “doctor” from berating him at every opportunity.

Müller attached the endocranioscopy harness to the unconscious patron’s head. The man, roughly tattooed and bearded, looked like an ideal candidate for some interesting neural patterns, but there was no way to be sure without a quick indexing scan.

“Bah, garbage! Nearly all garbage!” cried Strauß. “The man is a poser! Uneventful childhood, public schools in the United States…tattoos copied off of a picture on the internet! Never served in any navy, and…gott, still a virgin!”

“Fancy that,” Müller said. “Anything usable?”

“Bits and pieces only. A few sweeteners I can add to other patterns, and a decent breakdown in tears during a police interrogation for cannabis possession that could be tweaked into something usable. But not much else. Get the harness off of him and get him to the recovery room!”

Müller grudgingly pulled off the endocranioscopy harness and hauled the prostrate form, now beginning to twitch and mumble, to a filthy couch in the back. Bar patrons who legitimately passed out ended up there, as did customers who had been overwhelmed by imprinted or simulated experiences in Strauß’s underground memory parlor.

“Pussy,” snarled Müller as he dumped the poser onto the couch. “Fitting that your blubbering to the cops over weed will be the only part of you that lives on after this city eats you alive.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The satellite phone call went to the answering machine that Jen and Steve had jury-rigged. Voicemail was not an ideal option, but an old-fashioned answering machine tape could be played on a hand-cranked cassette player if the solar panel or wind farm failed.

“Hello, this is Steve,” said a pre-recorded voice.

“And this is Jen!” broke in another.

“We’re sorry to say that we’re not within hearing range of the phone, so please leave your message,” Steve’s voice continued.

“But on the bright side, we are probably outside enjoying our atoll and the life of Pacific natural beauty and self-sufficiency that we have built for ourselves here,” Jen’s voice added.

“All the sunburns, and all the isolation, are totally worth it,” Steve’s voice said, returning. “And if this is my old boss, or Jen’s old firm, we’re not interested. We appreciate the money that let us settle here, but we want nothing more to do with you.”

The beep ended the recorded message.

“What is that racket?” A well-armed man, speaking in Sundanese, approached and examined the answering machine.

“It’s nothing,” said another. His assault rifle was slung as he tried to pry a gold bracelet off a limp and rapidly cooling wrist. “The satellite phone is worthless without a carrier plan and the answering machine is a piece of junk. Not worth carrying back to the boat.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Everything is always the same in the maze. It doesn’t. I think maybe it can’t.” The words came out shaky, starting and stopping, speeding up and slowing down, as their utterer rocked back and forth. It was almost as if the art and craft of language had been all but forgotten after long disuse.

“That can’t be true,” I said. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“That’s just it…the maze can’t change. Chip off a corner, make a mark on the floor, leave something behind, it goes away. The next time you look away, even to blink, it’s back to normal. I’ve tried. Oh, I’ve tried. Stare at the wall for an hour. Stare at the floor ’til the eyes water. It doesn’t matter. But we’re not the maze.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, the ugly prickle of revelation beginning to grow in my gut.

“We’re not the maze, we’re not the maze. Out there, things can’t change. In here?” A tap on the forehead. “Things can change. Break. Heal. Breathing is fine, since whatever we spit out goes right back to being what it was. Never hungry, because I was full when I got here, I think. I think, I think, I think.”

“So why, then, did you smash the door?” I cried. “The one thing it looks like the maze won’t regenerate?”

“Don’t you see?” The cry was plaintive. “It’s been so long, so long. So unchanging, so unchanging. It’s all broken, up here, all broken. I needed someone to fix it, since I can’t do that myself. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t let you leave.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

In the Outland Empire, as in the Eastern Empire, and the Old Empire that once united them both, the Civil Service Examination was the key to securing a lucrative bureaucratic position for life. Reflecting its origins as a presidential democracy, the Outland Empire Civil Service Examination was open (in theory) to all, and not just the patrician families of Senators. Since the positions opened up very rarely, and few new ones were added to the creaky and deeply ossified structure of the Empire, competition was fierce.

Hence, people tended to cheat on the exam. A lot.

“Exam takers, stand for inspection. No outside paper. No outside pencils. Be prepared to submit to a full body cavity search.” The orders were barked by a member of the Popularis Guard, serving double duty as a testing proctor. The Popularis Party had merged its own armed forces with that of the Empire long ago, and their penchant for sudden, savage, but ideologically acceptable violence made them the first line of defense against cheaters.

Sine followed their directions, stripping down to his skivvies. He had worn the regulation white undergarments, specifically designed to show writing on the inside as well as bulges where contraband might be smuggled in (with the side effect of being immensely unflattering). He was therefore spared the indignity of an impromptu strip-search, unlike many of the less-prepared candidates. Sine’s personal belongings–skivvies aside–were tossed in a barrel alongside those of the hundred-or-so other test-takers. A receipt was thrust at him, but Sine knew that his belongings would be divvied up among the Popularis Guard and had therefore worn old clothes of no value and carried nothing but his ID card and bus fare. The applicants who had worn their Sunday best wished they’d done the same, to judge from the expressions on their faces.

“No cell phones, no satellite phones, no external communications of any kind! Get caught with any of them and it’s the blacklist, so throw them away now!”

There was a jammer, adapted from one once used for Peace-Sajadas overseas, but it was old technology and could not content with some of the newest spectrum-hopping equipment. Successfully getting a jammerbusting phone in could mean a near-perfect score…but the blacklist meant being forbidden from ever taking the test again, at least not without a hefty bribe. Sine didn’t even own such a phone–they were far too expensive–so there was no chance of him violating the edict.

In poring through the hundreds and hundreds of books available at the local Outland Imperial Library branch, cross-checking facts and garnering tips to be themselves cross-checked against those who had taken a recent exam. For the Civil Service Examination was his best and only hope for a better life and an escape from the squalor in which Sine found himself.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Two uniformed security guards, their drab uniforms bearing the logos of Earth Dryer Corporation, thrust Chaucey into a darkened room. He stood in a pool of light, the guards’ iron grips cutting off the circulation to his arms, while shadowy figures confronted him from the inky blackness.

“You were captured sneaking around an Earth Dryer Corporation automatic hand dryer manufacturing plant,” said a voice. Its intonation and pitch were strange and unplacable.

“I was just taking the factory tour!” said Chaucey, pleading ignorance.

“Lies!” cried a second, equally strange voice. “The tour groups are instructed to follow the tour guide at all times! You did not, and therefore you are a spy or an interloper!”

They had seen through the ruse quickly; Chaucey decided to hit them with the truth. “I’m with the local chapter of Humans for Ethical Animal Treatment. We’re investigating the fact that your plants are spewing out ten times the amount of greenhouse gasses that they should be!”

Expecting a lie or a half-truth or a flat denial, Chaucey was surprised when the voices–and many others like them–cackled in unison. “Yes, of course. Brilliant, isn’t it? People have no idea that our hand dryers have a larger carbon footprint than the largest of sport utility vehicles. All we needed to do was say they were environmentally friendly and no one bothered to check!”

“And the factories are little more than a shell to cover a dirty two-stroke engine of incredible size, to say nothing of the way both suck mosture from the air!”

“But…why?” said Chaucey, confused.

“Because we want to turn the world into a giant desert, of course! And Earth Dryers are, literally, our way to dry out the earth!”

“Again: but why?” Chaucey said.

“Perhaps this will answer your question.” The lights went on, and the dim shapes resolved themselves: kangaroo rats, desert beetles, addax antelope, and others crowded around a circular table. All of them xerocoles, desert animals, all of them capable of making metabolic water from their diets and never drinking a single drop in their life.

“Oh no,” said Chaucey.

“Oh yes,” said one of the kangaroo rats. “Once Earth Dryers dries out the earth, we will inherit it!”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Doctor, I keep smelling this awful smell wherever I go. I can’t describe it…it’s like the scent of burning hair mixed in with methane from a sewage treatment plant with rotten fish added to taste.”

“I see.”

“And I smell it everywhere. The house, the beach, the flower shop. The most powerful potpourri is helpless against it, it laughs at Febreeze, and scented candles are just balls of wax to it.”

“Well, we’ve run some tests, and-”

“Don’t tell me it’s something wrong with my nose, doctor. I’ve been to the best nose specialists in the country. The top nosemen have said that my nasal cavity is perfectly fine. So don’t patronize me, condescend, or insult my intelligence with any such talk.”

“Oh, I wasn’t about to. No, we’ve found the source of the odor, and I can assure you your nose has nothing to do with it, then.”

“So it’s an elaborate prank? I thought as much. I’ll have to double security, and-”

“No, your nose is just fine. It’s the scent-sensing lobe of your brain that’s the problem. We have uncovered a nasty tumor there, a real bugger.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!