Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Well, doc, I keep having these strange symptoms.”

“Strange in what way?”

“Well, I keep slaying the living and draining their still warm bodies of blood and other fluids with hypodermic fangs. I have developed a severe aversion to sunlight, running water, strongly-presented holy symbols, and slivers of wood.”

“When did these symptoms begin?”

“Not long after Dr. Hardtmann prescribed me Wampiria™, the Once-Daily Pill for Mild to Severe Rheumatoid Porphyric Hemophilia.”

“Did you have Mild to Severe Rheumatoid Porphyric Hemophilia?”

“No, but he prescribed it just in case, as a placebo.”

“That, in a nutshell, is why we can’t have good antibiotics anymore, my friend.”

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Kiro gingerly approached the smouldering wreck, his Type 193 assault rifle held ready. The crash appeared to have been relatively low speed and controlled until the final flip which tore the vehicle apart; the volatile fuel had been jettisoned and there was no fire to warm the frigid air, only thin plumes of smoke from tiny electrical fires.

“Received and confirmed, Patrol-27,” came the voice in his ear. “Support group is inbound.”

“How long before support arrival?” Kiro said.

“ETA is twenty sidereal minutes plus or minus ten, Patrol-27,” said Dispatch. “Orders are as follows: secure site if practical, eliminate any hostiles if practical, claim any valuables if practicable. Keep channel open and relay any observations.”

“Received and confirmed, Dispatch,” said Kiro. He began moving gingerly into the wreckage–he knew as well as anybody that when Dispatch relayed orders from Command ‘if practical,’ it was one’s duty to attempt them or die an honorable death in trying to do so. Promotion or death–those were the twin horns of Kiro’s dilemma, and beneath his practiced military exterior his heart glowed like a firelit jade at the prospect.

“Craft appears to be a Matsuhita Type 201,” he said, moving toward it. The Type 201 transport ship was long out of service with the Imperial Armed Forces in favor of the Type 210, but it was still used by the seperatists and their disloyal allies.

The hull was fractured in several places, allowing easy ingress, and Kiro soon saw that the craft had split in two, spilling much of its cargo onto the tundra. “Craft has catastrophic hull breach, no immediate danger. Cargo appears to be chiefly foodstuffs and non-reactive supplies.” That part was surprising, considering how starved the insurgents were for weapons. Almost every other Mastuhita Type 201 knocked out by Imperial batteries exploded violently as its munitions detonated.

“Hang, on, Dispatch. Have observed unusual item in intact section of cargo bay.” Kiro was drawn to an eerie light of uncertain and varicolor hue; approaching, he saw that a heavy-duty transport container had been smashed open by the crash, but that it had been padded by surrounding crates which had clearly been meant to conceal it. Bodies of a small but well-armed guards contingent surrounded it, in poses that suggested they had given their lives to protect the cargo.

The item itself defied desciption.

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“Quickly, quickly,” said “Doctor” Strauß. “We have only a few moments before the effects wear off.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” groused Müller. He had been employed by Strauß and the Stuttgart Biergarten in central Kowloon for over a year, and he knew that the drugs slipped into the bar patron’s drinks wore off quickly, and that he had to attach the that didn’t keep the good “doctor” from berating him at every opportunity.

Müller attached the endocranioscopy harness to the unconscious patron’s head. The man, roughly tattooed and bearded, looked like an ideal candidate for some interesting neural patterns, but there was no way to be sure without a quick indexing scan.

“Bah, garbage! Nearly all garbage!” cried Strauß. “The man is a poser! Uneventful childhood, public schools in the United States…tattoos copied off of a picture on the internet! Never served in any navy, and…gott, still a virgin!”

“Fancy that,” Müller said. “Anything usable?”

“Bits and pieces only. A few sweeteners I can add to other patterns, and a decent breakdown in tears during a police interrogation for cannabis possession that could be tweaked into something usable. But not much else. Get the harness off of him and get him to the recovery room!”

Müller grudgingly pulled off the endocranioscopy harness and hauled the prostrate form, now beginning to twitch and mumble, to a filthy couch in the back. Bar patrons who legitimately passed out ended up there, as did customers who had been overwhelmed by imprinted or simulated experiences in Strauß’s underground memory parlor.

“Pussy,” snarled Müller as he dumped the poser onto the couch. “Fitting that your blubbering to the cops over weed will be the only part of you that lives on after this city eats you alive.”

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