Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“We call it the XTC Protocol,” said Nahhigan, cradling the headset. It looked like a simple plastic headband, with dull metal electrodes around the inside.

James examined it, snapping a few pictures form various angles and taking a few notes to expand into the meat of his story. “What does XTC stand for?”

“Well, in the inital stages of the project, we were using the XML Telemetric and Command format. It’s a sort of telemetry used by satellites and spacecraft, certified by the Object Management Group international standards consortium.”

“I see,” said James, writing the information down while processing none of it. “And after the initial stages?”

“Well, the underlying architecture is the same, so the terminology is still applicable, and the consortium still approves of it, but…well, a lot has changed. You really have to try it for yourself.”

James shrugged. “I’m game.”

Nahhigan clipped the lightweight device, wireless and powered by its own small internal battery. Then, at the click of a mouse…ecstasy. Every receptor, every neuron, in his entire being was alight with pure information, interpretable as nothing less than towering, electric bliss. If any of them had felt one-tenth of what James was feeling, it was no wonder the Object Management Group approved of the XML Telemetric and Command protocol.

“OMG,,” James gasped. “XTC.”

Inspired by the song ‘XTC’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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The public administrator’s office, the place where the unknown and indigent dead’s estates were tracked down and disposed of, was an unlikely customer for cutting-edge technologies. Yet when a body was discovered, there was so much that the public administrator needed to know: the names of next of kin, terms of a will (if any), assets and debts. Investigations tended to be long and expensive.

With the introduction of cerebral synergy units, that all became much easier. The raw contents of a mind dumped at the coroner’s office, turned over to whoever needed it.

“All right,” said Calvin, speaking into a recorder built into his headset. “This is Calvin Matthews, an investigator working for the City of Hopewell public administrator’s office. My subject today is one Mr. Joseph Devine, born January 9, 1950 and found dead of natural causes in his home on November 19, 2015. In accordance with a warrant issued by the City of Hopewell circuit court, I am now going to attempt recovery of information and assets through cerebral synergy.”

There was no switch to throw, no button to press. All it took was a thought.

Calvin was Joseph Devine.

There was dancing. So much dancing! Joseph had, in the words of his neighbors, been a man who kept to himself, a man who never went out. But the memories that animated his life, that took up the greatest portion of his being, were of dancing and lights, laughter and the pungent odors of bodies in motion.

The Speakeasy on West State soon after it opened in ’67. Long hours of gyrating in blinding smoke to jazz players up from Chicago, down from Detroit. That disco joint on Division, what had it been called? Zucker’s. It had burned down in ’78, never rebuilt. But every nut and bolt of the place was laid out in Joseph’s mind.

His partners were blurry, indistinct, unimportant. All that mattered was the experience, music on the keen cutting edge of the world, and the motion. And then it had all come to an abrupt halt.

Inspired by the song ‘Joe 90’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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Outdoor rock concerts were the best for caninekind.

There were myriad things to sniff, of course. Effie could feel a thousand pungent and delectable odors fill her nostrils, each a thousand times stronger than any human could perceive. It was like a novel, a story, and if most canines weren’t able to appreciate it, Effie certainly was. She’d been around long enough to know that peoples’ stories were concentrated in their scent far more than in the gibberish that spilled out of their mouths.

Then, of course, there were the tastes. Bins and fields overflowing with the most delectable edibles, many tossed uneaten by the wayside by indolent rock fans. Effie delicately sampled many an entree as she passed through he arena, from pizzas to pretzels to pies. She shied away from the rare piece of chocolate and the much more common alcohol–one try of each had nearly killed her, and once was enough.

Music was an entirely different experience to sensitive canine ears. Not as meaningful as people seemed to find it, but interesting nonetheless. Unlike most canines, Effie didn’t shrink or shy away from the noise; rather, she sat at a safe distance and wagged.

Getting bumped into or stepped on was a very real thing, of course, but most of the concertgoers in outdoor venues were either too preoccupied to notice Effie, or friendly enough that their only reaction was to smile and pet or feed her. Some eco-warriors always tried to capture her for spaying, but she always managed to wriggle away.

That night, after the music had trailed off, Effie made her way into the tent city that housed the concertgoers and curled up on a sleeping bag. The next morning, someone scratched at the half-open door of the tent she’d passed out in.

“Hey Effie, you in there? Feeling better?”

“Just a sec, Jace,” Effie said. She pulled on a tank top and a pair of boxers before unzipping the door.

“You missed a hell of a set, Effie,” said Jace. “Didn’t even need half of those lights thanks to the full moon.”

“Oh, I know,” said Effie, wrinkling her nose with a sly smile as her fingers ran through her mussed-up pixie haircut. “I know.”

Inspired by the song ‘Dog crying in the distance’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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Natalie preferred shopping at dusk, when the rolling blackouts generally didn’t come and the interior of the Metromart was well-lit. It also helped that the landlines worked for processing her payment, instead of having to rely on cellular signals or paper, which often as not meant disputing a double charge.

“W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w…” As she stepped through, the old automated greeter attempted to say “Welcome to Metromart!” but stumbled on the first syllable.

“X,” said Natalie with a sardonic smile. “Y. Z. Next time, won’t you sing with me?”

The automated greeter said nothing, having shut down after a moment. Spare parts were probably needed for the registers anyhow, and the human greeters that they used sometimes tended to be in short supply when the store manager’s grandfather didn’t need a job.

“Welcome to Metromart,” said one of the cashiers over her shoulder without even looking.

There was a line of metal carts, requiring a deposit and burglar alarmed against scrap metal thieves, but Natalie took a bag ($5 retail) instead. She always carried one around before dropping it back onto the shelf just before checkout. The cashiers yelled at her sometimes, but Natalie needed something a little stiffer than hot air to carry everything by hand or dump credits into a cart.

She walked out into the corner of the store that was still lit and occupied, the rest of the cavernous exterior being blocked off and dusty. A cracked screen with bubbles and ghosts in its liquid crystals stirred to life at her approach. “W-w-when I need some quick energy on the go, I always choose Photon Energy Bars. Now available in the bar aisle!”

Natalie always got a kick out of those. The video hadn’t been updated in at least 10 years, but somebody with a computer and a modicum of skill had crudely dubbed over the name of the original, long-dead product (Jolt-brand caffeinated cereal bars) and pasted a still image in over the model’s hand. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll be happy to buy your caffienated cereal bars,” she said. “If only I can find a store that stocks them.”

After that, it was all business. There was a meager paycheck to be spent, an even more meager trickle of aid from the Outland Empire, and things got pretty rough pretty quickly once dusk turned to full-on night.

Inspired by the song ‘7th Heaven’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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GesteCo LLC PleasureCenter™ Operations Note

Use of the PleasureCenter™ device for more than 5 minutes is STRONGLY countraindicated. Any alteration of the hard-coded 5-minute time limit will void the GesteCo limited warranty and open the individual to prosecution under the Abuse of Pleasure Act § 10. Doing so despite posted warnings serves to absolve GesteCo LLC and PleasureCenter™ distributors of any and all liability in perpetuity throughout the universe.

Extended use of the PleasureCenter™ may cause the following side effects:

– “burnout” of pleasure centers in the human brain, leading to the inability to feel pleasure without a PleasureCenter™ ever again

– cerebral hemorrhage

– “hyperactivation” of pleasure centers in the human brain, leading to a state of constant bliss until death through coronary failure

– hysteria

– homicide

– violent involuntary spasms

– violent voluntary spasms

– atheism

– theism

– myocardial infarction

– coma

– death

– resurrection

Please use your PleasureCenter™ only within acceptable means and limits.

Inspired by the song ‘5 minutes pleasure’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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Heeey there, listeners out there in Transistor Radio Land! This is your old pal Nine-Volt, AKA Nines, AKA Niner-Niner, AKA Volty. I’m coming at you live from my underground pirate transmitter, which the FCC has been trying to locate and shut down for well over five years now. Give it up, guys! Here’s a tip for you: that piece of steel you had dynamited in Matamoros last week was just a decoy.

Fact is, you’ll never find your old pal Nine-Volt, so you should just stop trying!

Before we hook you up with some more music, we’ve got some business to take care of. You might hear that sick beat in the background while I’m talking to you; many thanks to the fan who sent that reel in parcel post. It might just be behind all of old Nine-Volt’s pirate transmissions from here on out!

A fan in San Fernando would like to shout-out to Oswaldo Hernandez of Glen Valley, CA; she sent in a fiver and a reel of a song to be played for him. Thanks for the scratch! Your song will be played tomorrow at 4:20 PM Pacific.

A dark warning here from a listener in Kentucky for one “B.S.” This fan says “I am coming to kill you slowly and painfully” and sent in a reel with a song to that effect. Look out, B.S.! Since there’s no bribe, I’ll play you your death song whenever I get around to it, but you’d better grow eyes in the back of your head!

Finally, before we spin our next reel, I’ve got a package here from a listener behind the old Iron Curtain, who’s given me a manifesto to read and a reel to spin. There’s a hefty bribe for old Nine-Volt but it’s in Polish Zloty. Once I get that converted, we’ll see about getting your manifesto and your music out there. Listeners beware: it’s in Polish and it’s three hours long!

Inspired by the song ‘9V’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“Optomism! That’s the watchword you need. Optimism! Seeing the best in everything. Optimism! Do it with a smile!” Bubbly and bouncy, the words were delivered with childlike enthusiasm and a youthful lilt.

“I’m optomistic,” deadpanned Captain Swann. “I’m very optimistic.”

“Well, then, show me! How do you think your voyage is going to end?”

Swann turned to his co-pilot. “Do we really have to go through this?” she said. “All I need is navigational clearance.”

“Well, these beacons were designed to be chatty. And most of them haven’t had a live contact in so long that they’ve started to go a little loopy.”

“Come on, then!” the beacon said over the open channel. “Sing me your optimism song! I want to hear it rattling the timbers of your noble vessel!”

Inspired by the song ‘Oval of Cassini’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“Why do you look so upset, Adam?”

Adam looked up as Cosette, her face concerned over the seaming tea in her cup. Even though she’d been born abroad, as he had, she never looked more comfortable, confident, or radiant than in France, the land of her ancestors for uncounted generations.

“This just doesn’t seem right,” he said, looking around the airy and expansive cafe with a view of the Seine. “I think I might have made a mistake.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Adam,” Cosette said. “Did you try the tea?”

Adam sipped listlessly at it. “Yeah. It’s good, but…something is missing. The taste isn’t quite right.”

“We can recalibrate that,” said Cosette, her eyes wide an earnest. “I see a few things wrong here or there. The weave is wrong on the tablecloths, the waiter knew what to do with that customer’s tip, that customer left a tip in the first place…but you know that a simulation is more than the sum of its parts.”

“I do know that,” said Adam slowly, deliberately. “But that also means that it’s more than a matter of simple programming.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. You’re always too hard on yourself.” Cosette said. “Just promise me you’ll try and correct what’s wrong with the simulation, okay?”

Adam sighed. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Cosette laughed. “You’re one of the best simulation designers I’ve ever loved. You can get this French cafe running so well that the President of France would be fooled. You can get it running so well that even a Gallic gal like me would be fooled.”

Adam reached across the table and gave Cosette’s hand a squeeze. “All right,” he said, his face a featureless mask. “I’ll try again.”

With a predetermined gesture, he ended the simulation. The cafe, the patrons, the Seine…all gave way to blackness. Cosette, too, vanished into the ether a split-second later.

“I’ll get it right,” Adam said softly. “Sooner or later, I’ll get it right.”

Inspired by the song ‘Intervista’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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Days don’t come much nicer than that handful of warm but crackling spins in early fall. Warm enough that you don’t need a jacket, yet with enough of a cool bite that you don’t wind up dripping. The Hopewell Arboretum was never busier than on those few days, especially since they tended to coincide with the first few major assignments due at the university. Lovely fall days are never better than when they’ve got the pungent notes of procrastination mixed in.

Three pledges from Alpha Qoppa Nu had gone out to toss a pigskin around on the green. They needed time to unwind after a vicious schedule of housecleaning and hazing, for one. For another…well, the green was verdent not only with carefully kept grass but also sunbathers insulated from the world by a cocoon of polarized lenses and pearly earphones.

A pass went wide, and the youngest pledge–only 17 thanks to an awkwardly-placed birthday–saw his throw go wide, bounding off the green and into the rough.

“Go get it, Ralph!” cried his fellow Alpha. “You throw for it, you go for it!”

Ralph complied with a sigh. His given name was Lawrence, or Larry to his old classmates at Deerton High. There had been an…incident…at his first Alpha mixer, though, involving a hose and spirits strong enough to need an exorcism just to get them out of the bottle. After the ensuing mess, he’d been known as “Ralph” to the entire Alpha house. Luckily, they seemed to find it endearing.

The brush snapped merrily, already lined with the beginnings of the fallen-leaf carpet that would soon be crushed under first snowfall. Ralph was able to make his way through the tangle with only a little difficulty, and most of that came from the glare of a magic-hour sun in his eyes.

His football lay about a hundred yards in, having careened of something or other, at the foot of a bridge. Judging by the layout, it had once spanned the reservoir that used to cover the arboretum, but the water’s disappearance left it hanging in space over a river tributary below, swift and deep.

Ralph took a tentative step out, reaching his hand for the oblate spheroid that was just a little out of reach on a structure with less integrity than a New York City alderman. He soon regretted even this timid action, as the rotting timbers gave way and sent man and ball tumbling toward the welcoming drink below.

Inspired by the song ‘Alpha Ralpha’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“Totalitarian Robot Televisions have been in the Top 100 for month, the Top 10 for weeks, and #1 for five days. And you’re telling me that they’re being sued?”

“That’s right, sir. The drum loop and samples that they used for the bass line came from Concussion Statuette’s 1977 album Without Makeup. Used without permission.”

“What do they want?”

“They want a million dollars, sir.”

“What?”

“Per minute, sir.”

“…how long is the song?”

“8 minutes and 13 seconds, sir.”

“Put on something soothing and morose from the back catalog. This is going to hurt.”

“The Penitent Barrister Original Motion Picture Soundtrack it is, sir.”

Inspired by the song ‘813’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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