Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

A man once asked a tree a question
with no idea if it understood him or not.
His words were taken in, resonating through the bark
as they sunk in over the long slow lifespan of a tree.
And then, miraculously, an answer came forth
carried in the subtle warping of wood and branches
over a span of time that made sense to a slow grower.
One hundred years after the question was asked
and nearly as long after the questioner had died
the answer was complete.
“I F E E L F I N E.”

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Sam ran the gum over the scanner. It beeped twice, and two transactions appeared on the screen:

-1 HPY DY GM – $3.00.00.00

“Hm. $3 for Happy Day Gum? I guess they’re just having a sale.” He thumbed the scanner pad, approving the payment and agreeing to all terms and conditions without reading them, as per usual. The same old ‘overdrawn alert’ appeared, but that was to be expected–Sam was usually in the red until his paycheck arrived.

After he got off the train and up to his one-room apartment, though, he saw that there was a drone in Metromart paint waiting at his door. “Hello sir or madam!” it chirped. “Thank you for your purchase. Unfortunately, there were not sufficient funds to cover it. Metromart asks that you return its property.”

Sam popped a bubble with the gum and sucked it back in. “It’s not that much,” he said. “They’ve never sent a drone before.”

“Collections drones are used for amounts in excess of $1000 ND,” came the response. “Are you refusing to return the item?”

“I can’t. The item is damaged. It’s been opened and destroyed.”

“Metromart is sorry that you have refused to return the item.” The drone whirred and printed out a receipt. “We have remanded your case to a local collection agency for settlement. Have a nice day.”

Sam looked down at the receipt, which spelled out his purchase in slightly more detail than the POS screen had:

1 Happy Day Gum – $3,000,000.00 ND ($300,000,000.00 USD)

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Caleb
Male, 40s

Gruff, laconic, but not without a sense of humor, Caleb is used to living off the land and using his wits. Many years of living with a changing and dwindling group of people after the collapse have made him aloof at times, and he is not always completely ready for the task of caring for the children. A crack shot and natural tinkerer, though his ability to work with electronics and programming is more one of trial and error. His torso and heart are enhanced, which gives him additional stamina and a bit more toughness.

Trace
Male, 12-13

Talks a lot, tends to babble. The closest to his “grandfather” in temperament. Feuds mightily with Sister. Has a mechanical arm, which he uses for climbing. Easily the most athletic and physically strongest of the children.

Transistor “Sister”
Female, 11-12

Intelligent and driven, but also argumentative and with something to prove. Tends to get into fights. She has a cybernetic leg with a springy “blade” similar to that used by amputee runners. She has an aptitude for mechanical items and is very interested in learning from Caleb.

Resistor “Tory”
Female, 10-11

Very close with Sister but easily led astray and with little regard for consequences. The most cybernetically enhanced of all the children, both arms and both legs are artificial.

Diode “Di”
Female, 8-9

The seamstress and stylist of the group, with a proclivity for making clothing and styling hair, often with disastrous results. One of her eyes and most of her left arm are artificial, which gives her an advantage in this area.

Switch
Male, 11-12

Very quiet and aloof. His eyes are both artificial lenses, giving him a great deal of visual acuity and insight, but he lacks confidence. Easily the best and deadliest shot.

Capacitor “Cap”
Female, 6-7

A natural programmer far in excess of her years, with a mechanical arm that vastly increases her typing speed and a mechanical leg that can serve as a data port.

Chip
Male, 6-7

Looks up to Trace and forms part of his “posse.” An excellent cook with a keen eye for food and a way with animals. Both of his hands are mechanical, and he has worked with the others to produce attachments useful in cooking and cleaning.

Breaker
Female, 5-6

Breaker has two mechanical legs, which she routinely disconnects in order to get into tight spaces. Has an aptitude for vehicles, powered or unpowered, and is often seen in her wagon.

Fuse
Male, 5-6

The other member of Trace’s “posse.” Fuse is very athletic and disdains reading or tinkering; possibly dyslexic. Fuse has a cybernetically enhanced neck, which performs his respiration and automatically filters out particulates. He speaks through a synthesizer, which warbles when overloaded. Thanks to his enhancement, he is capable of breathing water and can live without oxygen for a few minutes.

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“I was, what, ten or eleven?” Caleb said. “Old enough to remember but young enough to forget, if that makes sense.”

Tobe coughed. “Oh, I get it. You remember, but it’s more images and feelings. When you try to pin it down, it wriggles out of your grasp like a boned fish.”

“Somehow, I don’t think a boned fish is the only thing that wriggles out of your grasp,” said Celia at the campfire behind them.

Tobe waved her away. “It’s the worst thing, you know, knowing that things were once better and folks threw it away.”

“I just remember my mother taking us away from where we’d been living. There was shouting…men with guns…and fewer people as we went further and further away from the city.”

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“I need to be assured of your support in the Edelkammer when this measure comes up,” said Voss. “We have the power to use it through, if need be, but things will be easier if it is a large majority with respected statesmen like yourself behind it.”

Blohm did not rise from his seat, instead combing his whiskers to one side and blithely refilling his great horn pipe, on which he continued to puff meditatively. “What does the Emperor think of this? As much as we may dislike the successionists, they are still subjects of His Imperial and Royal Majesty.”

Voss laughed, a short, sharp, bitter sound almost like a strangled cough. “I am, of course, the Emperor’s loyal servant,” he said, “but these arcane matters of state do not rise to His Imperial and Royal Majesty’s notice. We are doing the Emperor’s work by using to powers he has delegated to us and not pestering him about minutae.”

A fresh puff wafted up from Blohm’s armchair. “If matters of state are beneath the Emperor’s notice, to say nothing of the welfare of his subject, then what have we left to him?”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cling to that fairy tale and fig leaf as your only response,” said Voss. “The Emperor is a unifying symbol, the grandfather of his nation. He reviews troops, feeds ambassadors, and recites jolly nothings to small children for newspapermen and photographers. When it comes to the actual filthy work of running the Empire, we are the ones who must do it.”

“I see,” said Blohm. “And you feel that rounding up and executing the secessionist leaders will force their fellows to lie down, beg the Emperor his indulgence, and learn to speak fluent Old High Imperial with no accent?”

“I am not so blundering as you appear to think me,” Voss replied. “But I do know that if we leave them be, we’ll find ourselves both out of a job when the old man finally dies.”

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They say it’s been a summer of violence, in the papers. But you’ve gotta wonder if it’s any different, or if our eyes are just open wider. Are we only seeing afresh the thousand little violences that make up life in a place where there is no middle? Maybe the difference is that lives are getting chewed up quicker, chalk outlines on what should have been a safe floor instead of husked-out rinds beaten down by years of violence spring, fall, summer, winter. No one could–no one would–lift a hand against threats muttered on sultry air, unjust blows rained down behind doors closed and locked. No one can–no one does–lift a hand against machines of death chewing up supermarkets and festivals. By the time they got to the perpetrator, there was never anything left to punish. The people are the same, the misery is the same, it is only death that has become more efficient, stalking us all on copper-clad wings. When no one stands against it, great or small, fast or slow, nine millimeters or the width of a thumb, is it all the same?

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Couv was almost late to his job due to the holy war.

The Lightfaith had come down like a hammer, and as Couv walked casually through the streets of Edeleve, hands in pockets, he could see the results of their purge. Streams of people, many of them broken or bloodied, staggered toward the citadel in long lines, each bound to the others. Many were still wearing the white robes of the Aulites, though most were showing muddy blood at the very least.

“Shame,” Couv said to himself. “I was sick of them, but not enough to want them all smashed.” Like anyone else with business in Edeleve for the last twenty years or so, he’d gotten used to the Aulites preaching on street corners, the constant pleas for love and universal brotherhood. He’d filled up on thin gruel from time to time at the Aulites’ run-down missions where they served all comers.

“Look! Behold, the great mercy of the Martyr upon these sorry and weary folk!” one of the Edeleve city guard cried, walking beside the prisoners. “The law decrees death for apostasy, and yet they will be given the chance to redeem themselves through labor! Is that not good and just, brother?”

It took Couv a split second to realize that the guardsman was talking to him. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Just passing through.”

With a dissatisfied snort, the guardsman continued haranguing all passersby as the column moved on. For his part, Couv was just happy that the guard had been so focused on shouting about redemption that he hadn’t noticed the handoff. A small envelope, wax-sealed, had flicked between a passing man’s hands and Couv’s, with no one being any the wiser.

He slipped into one of the many pubs lining the Edeleve docks and ordered their smallest, cheapest drink before wandering over to the fire. The seal was good, a clean impression from an authentic signet ring. Couv broke it and tossed the envelope into the embers after it had spilled two small scraps into his hand: an address in the slums of Edeleve, and a scrawled note from his employer.

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The skipper had taken the night watch. He wasn’t able to do it often, since taking the day to sleep meant he would inevitably be roused by the hundred little issues that could befall a sailing ship with a green crew. But when the almanac said that there would be a full moon and the clouds were just right, he would stand watch at the bottom of the night and watch the second-largest lamp to shine on the world reflect brilliantly off its largest mirror.

It took him back, in a way that nothing else could, to the nights he had spent on the bluffs as a boy, watching the lighthouse and the moon and looking for any sign of his father’s ship gliding into port. It was a sense of wonder that didn’t come easily to anyone who’d ever had men under their command, much less as far from home as the skipper’s ship tended to wander.

But it was one of his only pleasures, and his easiest.

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“The dining car will be closing soon, sir.”

Cam reached into his wallet and pulled out a $20 silver certificate. “Let me stick around,” he said. “You can turn the lights off if you want, but I can’t go back to my car.”

The steward took the bill and folded it. “Anyone in here? Dining car is closing!” he said. Then, looking through and around Cam, he buttoned up the place and turned off the lights. Cam was left with only the odd light outside and dim moonlight glistening through the dining car windows as he continued to nurse the bottle he’d bought hours before.

“You can come sit down, if you like,” Cam said, two half-glasses on. “No sense just standing there alone in the dark.”

A shadow slid into the seat opposite him. “Very kind of you. Not that it will make any difference.”

“Of course not,” said Cam. “No need to shout and beat one’s breast at the inevitable. You could probably see that by my…feeble efforts to hide.”

“A feeble effort is still more than most will put forth, at least before the end when they begin whining and pleading.”

Cam nodded, then gestured to his bottle. “Care for a nightcap? I’ve got a clean glass, still. I had them put it out, for…I don’t know what. Maybe I had a premonition.”

“I’ll have a sip, but no more than that. Can’t be impaired on the job, hmm?”

“No, of course not.” Cam poured two fresh glasses. He took a deep drink from his own, first. “There, you can be sure I haven’t doctored it.”

A hand reached out took up the other stem, sipped. “A fine vintage. Shall we settle up, then?”

Cam nodded. “Very well. Will it be quick?”

“No need to drag it out.”

His drink finished, Cam set the stem back down. “Do it, then, and let’s have done with it.”

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