Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“You have no idea what you’ve got there, do you old one?”

Whelk looked behind himself, and saw what he had previously dismissed as a trick of shadow–the Zaar, the very same one that had nicked Jennie’s pendant in the first place.

“You dare speak to me thus in my own shop?” snarled Whelk. “I’ve a mind to banish you from that husk and contain you in a jewel of my choosing to sell to a couple of fat American will o’ wisp tourists.”

“Ah, but how can you cast the spell if you’ve forgotten the words?” the Zaar laughed.

Whelk defiantly moved his lips with the incantation he knew well, one which he used to banish pesky hobgoblins and pixies on a weekly basis, trapping their tiny souls in geegaws he sold for a quid apiece. But no sound came–the Zaar had stolen the very words from him.

“Is it any wonder that my master would send a Zaar to collect this trinket?” The Zaar leered, cackling with glee–an effect all the more unsettling to see on the serious and bespectacled waxwork face of Eamon de Valera. “You think it a shiny bauble, a thing to be bartered and sold, but I know its true potential. And I mean to have it.”

“You are no ordinary Zaar,” Whelk choked.

“Oh, figured that all out by yourself did you? Was it the glasses? Or the suit and tie? Or the fact that I can banish your feeble incantations with just a passing thought?” The Zaar licked its lips hungrily, a gesture that could have had no meaning in its waxy form other than intimidation. “Give me the bauble, now, old one, and I’ll let you off after having a bit of fun. You might even live! The scars might not be noticeable after a few years, and the limp might fix itself!”

“You don’t scare me,” Whelk said.

“Nor should I,” laughed the Zaar. “I should terrify you, old one! The very thought that I might make you my business ought to have you squealing for your life like a veal calf before the slaughter! I am like the last page of a good book, because we both spell the end for you.”

Whelk was not a fool, but he did not suffer intrusions in his affairs lightly. “You waste your words on one who has shrugged off better intimidation before breakfast,” he sneered. “Begone, ordinary or not, or I’ll find a way of dealing with you that requires no words.”

“But what fun is there in the world without words?” Eamon de Valera’s waxy features drew closer, his marble-eyes wide and malignant. “How else might I tell you of the very special doom I have set out for you like a sumptuous banquet?”

The sword-stick Whelk had hidden in a corner for intruders flashed through the dusty air. He had taken it from a seraphim on credit for a loan never repaid, and it ought to have rent the wax asunder easily with the keen meteoric iron edge alone, notwithstanding the many powerful enchantments thereon.

The Zaar grinned, even though its head was now on the floor. Picking it up and setting it back, the wax melted together seamlessly. “You expect a simple trick like that to banish me, old one?” The laughter grew in intensity, in pitch, becoming a monstrous parody of an insane cackle.

Whelk’s eyes widened.

“A snack, really, an appetizer for the birthing cry of a new god. The death of rationality and order! The howling of madness from the rooftops! Laughter everywhere at the black joke that is life!”

The old one’s soul was as dust upon the Zaar’s howling wind.

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The intruder stealthily breached the perimeter. The fence was high, at least eight feet, but he was able to pirouette, ninja-like, up the side. The target was in the middle of the compound, surrounded by open ground, and there were vigilant eyes everywhere around the prize.

To avoid notice, the intruder quietly scaled still further upward and scaled a telephone pole that towered over the fence, using the lineman’s footholds. Then, carefully moving hand-over-hand to avoid creating a complete circuit or losing his purchase, he crawled across the thick line (not only telephone but also electric wires as well.

This was enough to make it to the midpoint of the compound, near the target, where the wire carelessly passed near the branches of a tree. But the target was far below, and there were still hostile eyes and traps to deal with. There was no way to move from the wire to the tree without making noise; the intruder evidently resolved to trade stealth for speed.

Dropping down into the bare boughs in a cacophony of snaps and cracks, the intruder made his way down the tree toward the central structure. The target was protected by a pressure sensor designed to react violently to the presence of an interloper; the intruder dangled upside-down from a low-hanging limb to disarm it.

Inside the McWharton home, patriarch Dean looked at his newly-installed, “rodent-proof” birdfeeder and shook his head ruefully.

“Always bet on the squirrels,” he sighed, watching the interloping critter stuff its cheek pouches with ill-gotten seed. “Always.”

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You hear a lot about car insurance these days. 14 minutes saving you 14% or more on car insurance, customers switching and saving an average of $500 dollars per second, and of course enough commercials to keep the American advertising industry in the black for years to come.

But what if I told you that you could save 90% or more in 90 seconds or less?

That’s where PICO Car Assurance comes in.

Unlike traditional car insurance, PICO Car Assurance requires no agents, no actuaries, no investigators, and no overheard. We pass the cost savings directly on to you, the consumer, allowing you to claim savings of up to 90% off even the cheapest car insurance plan.

By tapping into the innate human need to save money, and by providing a warm comforting blanket of emotional support, PICO allows its customers to feel assured that nothing bad will happen to them or their automobile. By providing friendly, homely, fully automated voice support at all times, PICO customers are never more than a dialtone away from reassurance.

Naturally, anyone attempting to actually process a claim will run into a nightmare of red tape and obfuscation, albeit reassuring obfuscation. Like an abusive partner or a politician, warm but empty promises will be made and broken like so many twigs in a landslide. No one will ever receive so much as a dime from PICO, because we are selling assurance, not insurance.

But honestly, aren’t we just doing what all the other insurers are doing but being more open and honest about it? And, at the end of the day, isn’t it all about saving money and bragging to others rather than actually getting meaningful protection for your automobile or your loved ones?

PICO Car Assurance: the smart choice. Because empty words and empty promises are all we have in a cold and impersonal world.

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“The neighborhood you and your friends so desperately cling to is a lie,” said Cray, his delicate Southern inflection ripping with disdain, “a fabrication.”

“That’s a lie,” said Elliot, defiantly standing his ground as much as a boy his age could.

“Is it?” sneered Cray. “Answer me this: why do half of your streets terminate in dead ends? Why is there no connection to an outside road other than the main gate? Why must you travel outside the neighborhood for essentials? Is that what your parents remember, what they experienced?”

Elliot hesitated. He’d heard his parents talk about walking to the corner grocery, biking downtown to rent movies, having picnics in parks that were no more than a few minutes away by car. Nothing about the 20-minute drive between Oak Hills and the rest of Cascadia.

“As I thought. This neighborhood is an attempt by your parents to reproduce the milieu in which they grew up. They have mindlessly bought into a hollow mockery of the streets on which they once lived because things that are familiar are comforting. But while those long-gone streets were part of a city grid, and an organic part of the community of which they were a part, your neighborhood is a thing separate, betwixt and between a real community and the sterile apartments your parents so disdain.”

“Even if it is, don’t you care what’ll happen to us if you get rid of it?” Elliot said.

“By wiping this area off the face of the earth, I am doing you a favor,” said Cray. “By sweeping away this artifice, I am teaching you a valuable lesson about the nature of the world. Truth and safety and community are illusions, commodities to be traded and bought and sold. The only real dividend is power, and its exercise. The sooner you children grow up and leave behind the foolish, quaint, and romantic notions your parents have imparted, the sooner you can carve a place for yourself in a world that neither knows nor cares of such things.”

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I love you so much it’s eerie.
–Vincent Van Gogh

Your love is maddening.
–Zelda Fitzgerald

We were made for each other.
–Mary Shelley

You’d have to be crazy to be my valentine, and I won’t be valentines with anyone who’s crazy.
–Joseph Heller

In the future, everyone will be my valentine for 15 minutes.
–Andy Warhol

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The store’s anti-theft system pinged. It was a gentle series of three tones, barely audible or distinguishable from a ringtone. Certainly nothing like the klaxon sirens of old, reflecting the fact that it was more profitable for Metromart to let the occasional shoplifter escape than to alienate customers who had forgotten an item in the bottom of their carts.

“We’re sorry, the Metromart automatic inventory control system has been activated. Please wait for an associate to assist you.”

No associate arrived, and there was no customer to wait for them; it scarcely mattered, as the tones and pre-recorded message went off again and again, looping with just a tiny interval in between. The sliding doors just behind them did the same, endlessly opening, blasting the cold winter air with overhead heaters, and closing again.

A screen near the entrance lit up. “Welcome to Metromart number [static], proudly serving the greater [static] area,” it said in a synthetic female voice. “Today’s specials are [static], [static], and [static].” Brightly colored boxes swirled into place, with placeholder graphics in place of the special items.

Screens all over the store, in fact, churned on loops with both canned advertisements and procedurally generated content. The Metromart was busy and bright, with every sound reflecting off spotless walls and every sight mirrored in glossy tile. But there were no customers.

And there never would be.

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“What do you mean,” Chris said, “that you designed a Library of Babel simulator?”

“Didn’t you ever read Borges?” Sam replied. “The Library of Babel is a short story about a library that contains every possible arrangement of letters and basic punctuation that can fit in a 410-page book with 40 lines per page and 80 letters per line.”

“So it would include very book that was ever written?” said Chris, sounding mildly interested. “Every book that could ever be written? The answer to life, the universe, and everything?”

“In theory, but that’s what this virtual site is supposed to prove is ridiculous,” Sam retorted. “That library would have at least 1.956 times 10^1,834,097 books, and for every genuine book there would be uncountable billions that were off by just enough to make them worthless. In essence, a library with infinite books is almost exactly like a library with no books.”

“Well, fire it up then,” said Chris. “Let’s see. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get some Shakespeare.”

Sam pulled up his program and it spat out its first book onto the screen. Entitled JJRQMPE RIJ RDYFSDT OPO LTXFGVOQRVM SVS, it began with the immortal line “AAFHF DPTNJRXYBTJHEQRCQMYIVFN, HGEF H.”

“Womp womp,” Sam said. “Care to try again?”

“Sure,” said Chris. “Hit me!”

The program created another book and filled the screen with its first page. THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY, proclaimed the title, continuing: FAR OUT IN THE UNCHARTED BACKWATERS OF THE UNFASHIONABLE END OF THE WESTERN SPIRAL ARM OF THE GALAXY LIES A SMALL, UNREGARDED YELLOW SUN.

Text generated by the Library of Babel online with apologies to Douglas Adams.

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“We’d like the welcome our Gold Pearl Medallion Cubic Zirconia Members aboard Alpha Airlines Flight 1666.”

“Damn.”

“Next, our first class passengers may board at this time.”

“Not me.”

“Coach passengers with disabilities, small children, or disabled small children are welcome to board Alpha Airlines Flight 1666 at this time.”

“Still not me.”

“Now boarding Zone 1. Passengers who paid extra for Zone 1 boarding may board at this time.”

“Darn it, I won’t have anywhere to put my suitcase!”

“Zone 2. Zone 2 passengers may board at this time, through the General Boarding Lane we set up so that people crowd the wrong place before their number is called.”

“Aah, there’s hardly anyone left! Uh, Miss?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering how long I have to wait before I board.”

“Just until we call your zone number. What’s your zone number? It should be on your boarding pass.”

“Zone 5.”

“What?”

“Zone 5.”

“That’s impossible, Alpha Airlines only goes up to Zone 3.”

“I’m telling you, that’s what it says. See? Zone 5.”

“Hmm.”

“So can I board now?”

“No, I’m afraid this means you can never board, since we will never call this zone.”

“What?”

“And, since your ticket has an impossibility on it, airport security will want to have a word with you in a locked room with a two-way mirror.”

“What??”

“That’s right, officers. Take them away. Now boarding Zone 3. Zone 3 passengers may board at this time.”

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01. No noise in the library.

This includes talking, incidental noise, and the false noise of tinnitus. Special sound dampeners, imported from the Grand Mosque in the Hyperkingdom of Saudi Arabia, create a dead zone from which no sound may be heard (though due to the design of the device, imams may escape its effects).

02. Library circulation, questions, and study must be done telepathically.

The library has a contract with Pathetel™ to allow use of thought-jacking for users with a level 6 wet neural interface or higher. Please make sure that your thoughtname and thoughtword are up to date. Please make sure to think at a low level, lest nearby patrons mistakenly receive errant thoughts. Patrons with level 5 or earlier wet neural interfaces, or dry neural interfaces, will not be able to use library resources without the help of an interpretive telepath.

03. Library items may not be copied in violation of copyright.

The library respects and abides by all intellectual property laws. As such, the contents of all items will be wiped from your memory upon returning the item, leaving only a vague sense of what you have experienced.

04. Do not use library neural interfaces for ultraporn.

Library neural interfaces are for patrons to use in browsing library services or surfing the ultranet. They are not to be used for ultraporn, hyperyaoi, megalolichan, or any other high-bitrate neural adult content. Any patrons caught doing so will have their interface re-tuned to Sesame Street: The Next Generation.

05. Items must be returned no later than the last date shown.

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In the most secluded part of the resort…

The scraps of what had been told him echoed through Hazel’s brain, tearing at the edges of his consciousness as he walked in a dreamlike daze through the turreted battlements and colorful flags.

…there is an ash with golden boughs…

The few people Hazel saw were hurrying in the opposite direction, toward the park exit. Some of the attractions were belching acrid smoke, with the system-wide electrical problems and shorts in the wiring probably to blame. Perhaps he had gone too far in arranging it, but it was all for a good reason.

…it has been there a thousand years…

“Sir, I must ask you to evacuate the park!” A Gisnep Parks security officer confronted Hazel, blocking the service entrance to the Gala Gardens. “It is not safe to remain here!”

…and will stand a thousand more…

“I have to go,” Hazel said sleepily. “It’s calling me.”

…the architect of this place knew…

“S-sir, you will evacuate now!” The Gisnep Parks man leveled his Taser at Hazel. His hands were trembling, his aim shaken by the circumstance and Hazel’s detachment. It was also a good bet that he’d never had cause to aim, let alone fire, the thing before.

…it is the hub the world turns upon…

“Can’t you hear it?” said Hazel. “Mr. Gisnep knew, when he built this place. And now I will know as well.” He started a bit as the electrodes hit his chest, but the current had no effect. Maybe the Taser was broken, or the nervous Gisnep rent-a-cop fired it wrong. Or maybe it was the Tree.

…to protect it is to bring fortune…

The Gisnep Parks guard dropped his weapon and fled. Hazel pulled the electrodes out and opened the gate the man had left ajar. He wandered among the Gala Gardens, following the sweet golden melody even as warbled and distorted versions of the Gisnep Anthem commingled with the evacuees’ screams in the background.

…to nourish it is to achieve immortality…

The Tree was the lone ash in the Gardens, its position reflecting neither its importance nor its power. Old man Gisnep must have known, even as he built his great resort around the Tree to protect it and to harness its positive energies, that the best security was often obscurity.

…to destroy it is to unmake the world…

“I have come,” Hazel said in a low voice. “I was called and I have come. What would you ask of me? What would you use me for, amidst the dreams of thousands turned nightmare?”

…to touch it is to touch creation.

“I see.” Hazel removed one of his gloves and reverently placed a hand on the Tree’s trunk. Eyes widened, pupils dilated, and he beheld.

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