Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

They call it “casting off.”

In the first few weeks after arriving in the vertical jungle that is the City, people find the constant assault on their senses, all the light and sound, has the effect of making their schedules more nocturnal. Stores are open 24 hours, transportation runs 24 hours, there is nothing that is not open for business and illuminated, if not always totally safe, at any hour of the day.

Many suffer temporary psychoses from this sudden and often intense change to their sleep-wake cycle, and there are sun lamp parlors and sleep clinics galore to help those with the money to demand it. But one thing, strangely never seems to be at issue for these new Citizens.

They never seem to notice that the shift in their waking life has the effect of cutting them off from all they knew before. “Casting off” is a traumatic separation, a birthing, into a new milieu. The City accepts all who seek it, but only if they are willing to pay its price.

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“We are members of the Brotherhood of Magical Workers,” said Tinuviel the halfling, flashing her best smile. “We’ve come to help you in your struggle against injustice.”

“You will forgive Rosa if she doubt your story,” said the goblin leader, resplendent in her heirloom helmet–the very one Derex Freehold had required as proof of her demise. “Rosa does not think any of you are more magical or workers than a turnip.”

“Why’s that?” cried Tinuviel, aghast that her charm had failed to have the desired effect.

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO MAGE!” Rosa cried.

Tinuviel looked at her companions, Adenan the halfling and Chanel the elf. “Fair enough.

“If the other heroes are as you say, then prove yourself to the goblins,” said Rosa. “Then, only then, will be trust between us.”

“What do you want us to do? Kill them? Because Aiden Jenison is going to die one way or another for stealing my reward,” said Adenan the halfling darkly.

“Kill them? Without weapons? What would prove? Only that you have thirst for blood,” spat Rosa. “No, get them to admit treachery and will be enough. Or make them break oath to protect us. Either is good. But no killing!”

Adenan’s face fell. “All right.”

“How, exactly, are we supposed to get them to admit they are working for Derex?” cried Chanel. “They’re not the smartest bunch but I don’t think they’re THAT dumb.”

“Here,” said Rosa. “You may take my son, Splix. Is small. Will fit in rucksack and tell Mommy all hears.”

The goblin handed a small green tadpole to Adenan, the party’s designated pack mule. The hobbit recoiled. “What is that?”

“Is my son!” cried Rosa. “Is not yet metamorphosed. Do know nothing of goblins? Keep him wet and safe!”

“Look,” growled Adenan in a fierce tone that belied her tiny, tiny stature. “We made it through Minaka the Conqueror’s whole army without a scratch. Either you give us what we’re owed, and you do it now, or we will beat your sorry asses to a bloody pulp and chuck you all in the river.”

Taken aback, Red the Huntress threw a coin purse at the hobbit’s feet. “All right everyone, let’s roll out!” she cried. “Back to town!”

The other adventurers followed her lead, including the newest member, Skeletonio the skeleton mage late of Minaka’s undead army, who sighed deeply before following.

Aiden Jenison, the group’s leader who had been banished to a corner by Red, clanked after them in his ridiculous armor. “Hey! What did you tell them? Guys! GUYS! Come back! We have them outnumbered! Come on!”

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In the most dismal and squalid of hovels, offal pits, and other noisome locations, even rats may become entangled and perish. But when the fetid prize that they seek is so alluring that rats keep coming, keep dying, something altogether unnatural may occur.

The flesh and spirits of the vermin form a crucible, a psychic energy well that returns to and reanimates the conglomeration. While it has most often taken the form of a group of rats with entangled tails, the foul matter may take any form that it can maintain. With enough deaths, the gestalt creature can gain human or even superhuman levels of intellect and cunning, and command over rats in close proximity.

This has happened only 25 to 50 times in recorded history, but each time has been tremendously dangerous. This is the birthing of a Rattenkönig, a rat king.

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In Washington today, the President signed the Surname Redressment Act into law. Passed by a narrow margin in a Congress controlled by Democrats, the Act establishes official government aid for those whose surnames begin with the last five letters of the English alphabet.

This aid includes monthly Alphabet Aid available to those who qualify in addition to other programs. Federal law will now require universities and colleges to consider an applicant’s last name in their favor if it is at the back of the alphabet, and the act of sorting people or things by their first letter has been officially outlawed.

Critics of the government, however, were quick to condemn the Act as equivalent to the notorious Alphabet Laws of the 1930s. The Laws had officially discrimitated against those with last names beginning with V, W, X, Y, and Z and offered financial incentives to change them. This resulted in an “Alphabetized Generation” of Yaridoviches, Xaviers, and Zarathustras who lost or gave up their original surnames.

The President, in signing the Act into law, stated that “this is about redressing the wrongs of kindergarten lines past and present, and affirming the human dignity of those who have suffered alphabetical discrimination in their lives.”

Proponents of the Act cite studies claiming long-term psychological and socal damage to children forced to the back of alphabetized lines. In their hurry to agree with the President, though, many of his supporting organizations seem to have not fully read the Act. The American Library Association, for instance, issued s press release hailing the decision followed by another calling for rational and civil discourse after it became apparent that the Act rendered every existing library classification system illegal.

At press time, it was unclear whether the law as signed would extend only to birth names or whether it would include name changes due to marriage or other causes. When asked, the President referred the question to his press secretary, who claimed that “top men” were currently working out the finer details of implementation.

The Surname Redressment Act takes effect one week after being signed into law, a period of time that supporters called “more than adequete” for its implementation.

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Utopia Planitia Press had quotas to fill: a new science fiction hardback, produced for the hardcore faithful, dropped every month. The market was incredibly lucrative, since the books were sold for $30 each, but the compressed time frame meant there wasn’t the luxury of hand-painted cover illustrations.

Enter Dean Crighton and his copy of Poser 3D.

“What’s that?” he said. “A legion of space women in bikinis attacking a Nazi tank operated by a tyrannosaurus? I’ll have to make some unique assets for that, so it’ll be ready by 5.”

Putting down the phone, Dean looked at his blank sub-Pixar 3D workspace and sighed. “I hate my job,” he said with a mournful sidelong glance at his art school diploma on a dusty shelf.

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“It’s a Mackensen-class battlecruiser,” said Curnow with a low whistle. “Old as hell but still pretty potent.”

“Obsolete,” said Dr. Strasser. “Sublight missiles and munitions are worthless in the face of modern naval technology.”

“Then why didn’t the Navy blow this thing to hell during the war?” Myassa said.

“Political concerns,” said Strasser with a note of contempt in his voice. “They did not have the stomach for blood and there is no guarantee even against a battlecruiser as obsolete as this that pictures of maimed ensigns won’t be all over the news.”

Curnow’s nav console blinked and squeaked. “We are being targeted,” said Taos. “5 kiloton fission warheads and 105mm mass drivers. The Fancy Rat was painted with their search-and-destroy sensors as soon as it entered the system.”

“Why am I only hearing about this now?” Jai cried.

“Apologies, captain,” said Taos in his even tone. “Our sensors are not designed for combat.”

Jai felt sweat prickle beneath his collar. “Are…are they going to fire on us?”

“Yes, brilliant deduction,” Myassa said. “They hired us to deliver cargo and passengers only to blast us out of the sky just for kicks.”

“Incoming transmission, captain,” said Taos. “I shall rely it.”

Speakers crackled and a grainy but strident voice emerged: “Attention unidentified vessel: This is the UNS Lutzow. Present your credentials and prepare for inspection and boarding. Failure to comply will result in your immediate and unconditional destruction.”

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Dr. Adrian Vela was one of the most influential thinkers in the realm of cryptanalysis. A contemporary of Claude Shannon, Vela was a minor member of the team that broke the Japanese military ciphers during World War II and rose to be the deputy head of signals analysis and cryptography for the CIA after the war. His maxim, “with enough time, even a monkey can break our best code,” is still in use today.

Dr. Vela took an early retirement in 1970 and bought a small house in tidewater Virginia. Declining offers to teach at his alma maters, the University of Virginia and Harvard, he instead devoted himself full-time to nature poetry. While he took visitors and sometime unofficially consulted on cryptanalysis problems for his former colleagues, he published no further work in his field.

Instead, Dr. Vela devoted himself to writing nature poetry in the form of haikus. From his retirement in 1970 to his death from pancreatic cancer in 1987, Vela wrote over 10,000 haikus chatacterized by extremely inventive and odd word usage. The manuscripts went to the University of Virginia archives, where they were for many years a popular topic of study.

The idea was that surely Dr. Vela must have encoded a ciphertext among his haikus, much as he had once hidden obscene messages in otherwise innocuous letters-to-the-editor during his days at Harvard. Some of the best cryptological minds of the following generation applied themselves to the problem for years.

In 1999, it was announced that an incredibly complex cipher had in fact been discovered by applying a frequency analysis to the haikus which were prime numbers in the series of 10,000+ poems. With much fanfare, it was decrypted in a live TV special for the Archaeology Channel:

SOMETIMES A MAN JUST WANTS TO WRITE POETRY

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The Deerton Retirees Walking Tour was a perennial favorite of the small town’s rapidly greying populace. Led by volunteer guides from the local high school, the tour combined historical research with the latest gossip. Retirees had someone to tell their stories to, the kids had recent events to share, and everyone seemed to have a good time.

“Did I ever tell you that I was the mayor of Deerton?” said Sheila Donohue to her walking tour guide, high school senior Abby Holtzmann. “For a whole year, after the previous mayor was forced out of office for taking bribes. He took $1000 to let them tear down the old railway depot to build that service station, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Abby with a smile.

“Now, I wasn’t a politician,” continued Sheila. “Never was. Never ran for elected office in my life! But I came to all the meetings. I was very active, very educated. So when the position was vacan they asked me to step in and hold it until they could hold a new election.”

“I bet it took a while for that to happen,” said Abby. She was leading the walking tour group toward the Euclid Trail, which wound through a depression next to state route 313.

“Over a year!” Shelia chuckled. “They couldn’t find anyone to get enough signatures! But I made the most of my time. We made a lot of changes that year, a lot that you can still see. 1978-1979. A big year for Deerton.”

“Of course,” said Abby. Raising her voice for the rest of the group, she returned to her spiel. “Now I don’t know how many of you were in town when it happened, but this depression used to be filled with water. Lake Tecumseh, they called it, or Lake Deerton. Depends on if you asked someone from here or Exeter.”

The retirees snickered at the mention of their regional rival in Tecumseh County, who had just walloped the Deerton Pumas at hoops.

“The lake emptied after the dam holding the river back burst, leaving this depression that we now use as a park,” said Abby.

“I was in charge when that happened, you know,” said Sheila. “The DNR came to us and said that the dam was fit to bust. They told us we weren’t allowed to fix it because of the environment, even though it wouls have been an easy fix. Damn Jimmy Carter and his tree-huggers. All we could do was make sure nobody was hurt.”

“And, luckily, nobody was,” Abby said. “Come on, let’s take a look at the pavilion the Scouts put up in 1988.

The retirees approached the gazebo–never used, due to its soft wood eaves being a magnet for yellowjacket nests.

Sheila took a look at the dedication plaque. “1988,” she said. “That’s just ten years after I left office. Did I ever tell you, young lady, that I was mayor of Deerton for a whole year?”

Abby smiled gently. “Did you have anything to do with the dam bursting and emptying the lake that used to be here?”

“Oh yes! Why, those hippies Jimmy Carter installed in the DNR wouldn’t let us fix it, you know!” Sheila bubbled.

Alzheimer’s had been gnawing at the edges of Sheila’s world for some time now. Abby and the othher retirees had heard the story no less than ten times already, but none of them had the heart to stop Sheila from having her moment, over and over again, during her very last walking tour.

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Michelle sat in the corner as she did every night. Forty minutes, rain or shine, use as directed. The mask, porcelain plastic, was featureless on her face. tinted glass on round eyeholes, the barest hint of eyebrows, and an opening at the bottom of a sculpted nose. The control unit, which drooped at the end of a coiled wire sprouting from a square nub at the end of the mask’s chin, sat in Michelle’s hand.

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“That thing creeps me right the hell out,” said Dennis, Michelle’s husband. She didn’t respond–movement during the treatment was strictly forbidden–but he thought he glimpsed a subtle flaring of nostril through the breathing hole.

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Michelle bundled herself up for her treatments, the hood of her robe covering her head, tights beneath it, and slippers over those. With her hands withdrawn into ample sleeves, virtually none of her skin was showing. If not for the rising and falling of her chest, Dennis would have thought her dead, or a mannikin.

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“Come on, Michelle, it’s been almost an hour already,” said Dennis. “Take that thing off.”

Michelle’s breathing subtly altered its rhythm but she said nothing.

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“Dammit, Michelle, this isn’t funny.” Dennis was in a foul mood, as he always was. Michelle hiding beneath yet another thing to keep from talking to him was not helping.

He strode over to her. He stood over her. Staring daggers, he tried to communicate wordlessly that she needed to start minding him, or there would be hell to pay.

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“So help me God, Michelle, I will rip that creepy-ass thing off your face if you don’t give me the goddamn common courtesy of looking me in the eye and answering me.”

Reaching up to grab the mask, Dennis gasped when Michelle shot out an arm to seize his wrist. Wrapped in a glove of loose bathrobe, he couldn’t see her fingers but they were exerting a force far beyond anything she should have been capable of generating.

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Dennis howled as his wrist snapped, tinder in a fire stoked with pain. His howl turned into a frenzied screeching as Michelle rose, locked her leg behind his, and pushed. His weight against him, Dennis dislocated something with a wet popping sound and tumbled to the ground.

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Michelle crouched down over her husband’s body. Paying no heed to the racket he was raising, she obeyed his earlier missive and removed the mask. His cries reached a feverish peak as he saw what lay beneath…and saw it occluded by the mask slipping over his own features.

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The Loamites
Chancellor Loam was a powerful political theorist whose adovcacy of a strong centralized and corprorate state earned him many admirers. He was successfully able to win election to the chancellorship but his political enemies revolted and forced him and his allies out after only 227 days with virtually none of their progreams implemented. The movement dwindled after that, but still has some strong–people might say extreme–adherents.

Umbriel Exiles
After the infamous anti-offworlder riots, the government of Umbriel was blockaded and attacked by a government coalition. Though many argued that the intervention was overkill, the Umbriel War turned into a vicious quagmire and ended with a breakout–the government and its remaining troops fought their way into open space and then jumped. A series of “governments in exile” followed as the occupation continued, gradually forcing the exiles further and further to the margins.

The Aiov Enlightenment
A philosophical movement holding that a society must be in complete and mechanized harmony, the Aiov Enlightenment was deemed an extremist group shortly after its founding. Nevertheless, its ideas of a regimented and orderly merging of the personal and professional spheres appealed to many, and the movement grew in leaps and bounds until it was officially outlawed. Many Aiov adherents took the opportunity to flee, seeking to establish settlements that followed this philosophy without outside interference.

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