Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Stand still, please. You will feel a stinging sensation as the beams pass over you, and some of your body hair may be singed off, but try not to move despite this as it is the only way to guard against improper fit and accidents.”

The replicator technician-priestess–Glynnis or somesuch, it wasn’t Pat’s concern to remember names–herded the supplicants onto a squealing and rusty conveyor belt. No one except the technician-priestess was wearing a stitch of clothing, but most were so caked in dirt and grime that it was hard to notice. Unlike the dole, which gave out as much mostly-inedible food as the machines could make, the spinprinter could replicate thin if livable clothing perfectly well–so long as the matter hoppers were kept fed.

Luckily for Pat, and for Herb beside him, the best way to get the proper raw materials was from the tatterdemalion rags of the indigent.

Pat nudged Herb at a private joke, pointing and laughing. Herb was having none of it; though it has been some time since the two of them lucked out by finding a settlement that still possessed working replicators at all, he was still resolutely paranoid about being thrown out. The settlement sure beat the regression to hunter-gathering, cannibalism, and worse that they had fled, Pat conceded. And if the price of the occasional replicated chocolate and clothing was a stinging sensation and having to turn in old garments to be recycled, he was happy to do so.

But that didn’t mean having no fun, Pat mused as the grinding of gears pushed the indigents through a laser-ringed arch to begin the printing process.

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

Before Grissom could reply, Vincent had walked out of the protective cover of the parked cars, toward Hartwell’s place. He held the shotgun in the crook of one arm, pointed at the ground and flopping easily.

“Who’s there?” a voice cried as he neared the front door.

“It’s Undersheriff Gaines, Mr. Hartwell,” said Vincent. “I’ve come to see if there’s something we can do to end this little standoff here.”

“Vincent Gaines?” Hartwell said. “The old Commissioner of Schools?”

“Not anymore,” Vincent said. “It’s Undersheriff now. And while I can hardly be called the same man, there is a certain resemblance, you might say.”

Hartwell was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “That’s the God’s honest, I am. That’s no way to lose your wife or your daughter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hartwell,” Vincent said. “I appreciate it.”

“So here’s what I’m gonna do, Undersheriff. I’m gonna let you walk back the way you came, and you’ve got my solemn word to the Lord God that I won’t shoot you in the back. That’s a damn sight more than I could promise any of those others. But don’t be expecting that kind of generous treatment if you come back again.”

“I’m mighty grateful for that, Mr. Hartwell. Truly I am. But I’m afraid I just wouldn’t be doing my duty if I took you up on that. Fact is, I think at this point you can’t even bribe me. I’m gonna have to come in there, arrest you, and take an axe to your still in the basement. We’ll try not to mess things up when we go on, and you should be out of jail in a few days.”

Vincent took another step forward, and Hartwell leaned out one of the front windows, a rifle in his hands. “You try that, and I’ll shoot you down where you stand. Send you to join your family.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Mr. Hartwell?”

Hartwell furrowed his brows. “You ought to. You’re a damned fool otherwise.”

“Do you think that a single day goes by that I don’t wish I was dead, Mr. Hartwell?” Vincent continued, still advancing. “Do you think one minute goes by when I’m holding this thing that I don’t want to put it in my moth and pull the trigger?”

“What’re you talking about?” Hartwell said.

“I’m just being honest with you, Mr. Hartwell. If you’re so anxious to shoot me, you’d better go ahead and shoot me. Believe me, it’s nothing I haven’t thought about doing twenty times before breakfast this morning.”

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

A polite society is a happy society, a secure society.

That’s what we all thought, anyway.

But that was before someone thanked a friend for a thank-you note and started a chain reaction which led to the Thankpocalypse.

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

“It’s a transaction involving the Republic of Laeth.”

“Wasn’t that in the news?”

“You mean the civil war? The fact that it’s now the People’s Republic of Neolaeth?”

“Well, that would explain why the newscaster sounded so depressed. What’s that got to do with the Exchange? If the old government owed you money, or if you have any holdings in Laeth kwatlous, you can bring your bearer certificates or IOUs in and see what the market will bear. My advice? Get one framed, put it on your wall, and sell the rest as souvenirs or toilet paper.”

“You misunderstand me; I am negotiating assets for exchange scrip. The Republic of Laeth Navy.”

“Oh, some of the old navy made it out? We’ve been known to convert a skiff or two into currency to let people do their Exchange shopping. What’re you selling?”

“The Republic of Laeth Navy.”

“You told me that. Which ship?”

“The Republic of Laeth Navy. The whole navy. Four battlecruisers, six cruisers, ten frigates, twenty destroyers. How much will you give me for it?”

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

“How…how could you say such things?” the young student said, visibly shaken and flustered.

“Ah, I can tell from your voice that you are young,” came the reply, from behind unblinking, clouded, rheumy eyes. “And I think I can tell from your reaction that your glow has not yet faded with age.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the student said, indignant.

“It means that when we are young and beautiful, we are used to getting our own way,” sighed the sage. “People give us their attention not because of what we say but because of who we are, and we are allowed to spout nonsense unchallenged by those blinded by our beauty or desirous of it.”

“But not you,” said the student, sarcastically.

“I have no sight left to see beauty, and no patience left for the folly and self-assurance of youth,” said the sage. “Better to be brought to the harsh light now than to only find it years later, when beauty has faded and decisions are made.”

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

Gordon Rynearson was a dreadful organist.

One might have been tempted to blame the fact that he was pushing 90. But there were too many sour notes, too many missed cues, too many hymns that morphed into “Heart and Soul” without warning–and too consistently–for Rynearson to be sliding down any sort of gentle senile slope.

He had been a dreadful organist since he was pushing 60.

Hopewell Presbyterian was a greying congregation, it’s true, but not so grey that people didn’t enjoy lifting their voices in praise to something new every now and again. Rynearson would kibosh anything written after 1900 by refusing to play it, or–worse–breaking into “Heart and Soul.” He actively refused to admit his hearing was going downhill, leading to missed cue after missed cue–to say nothing about the notes themselves often being out of tune.

There was no shortage of qualified younger organists ready to take the job–it was, after all, an unpaid gig–but no one had managed to dislodge Rynearson in the near-decade since he had become the sole organist by outliving everyone else in the rotation. He wouldn’t step down, and he was the brother of dearly beloved and departed Deacon Rynearson. So neither Cynthia Merlowe with her musicology degree, nor Richard Hibblestrom with his six years’ experience tickling the ivories at Cascadia Congressional would see their place in a rotation, much less the position as sole organist.

Perhaps not the best reason for a murder. But it was reason enough, all the same.

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