Proceed to Section Z Read online

  “Ah, the last of the happy party,” Icer coos.

  “There’s a traitor in our own group,” the Prime Counsel says darkly. “And I happen to know who he is.”

  After quick consideration, you firmly conclude that it’s not you. But that leaves you with three choices.

  Who is the traitor?

  a) Beffles. You don’t really believe that he stayed at the camp just because he’s a nice person, do you, Asswipe? Proceed to Section V.

  b) Senecalius. He’s the only one who hasn’t done anything suspicious, and is therefore a natural suspect. Proceed to Section W.

  c) Dorwin. He waved you into this deathtrap. A predictable setup, but it works. Proceed to Section X.

  SECTION T

  Since you aren’t sure that the blast that blew off the concentration camp’s gates has destroyed the cryotherapists’ weapon depot, and since the blast itself has pretty much fucked your chances for effecting a stealthy approach, you, Senecalius, and Dorwin decide that neither heroic frontal assault nor philosophical subtlety will best win you entrance to the cave. That’s why you casually saunter up to the opening and call down, “Hello! Meter Reader!”

  It is several minutes before the arrival of an uncertain response from deep within the cave: “Uh, what?”

  “Meter Reader! Keith County Gas and Electric.”

  Silence. Then a curt, “Sorry. We’re in the shower.”

  “All of you? Oh, come on, now! I’ve gotta check your usage for the last quarter.”

  Brief, hushed discussion precedes the next response. “Look, we don’t really use all that much heat here.”

  You harumph loudly enough for them to hear “My records show you’re running gas-powered refrigerators. We’ve had to bill you on estimates for over a decade now. If I don’t get an actual reading, I’m gonna lose my job.”

  Senecalius and Dorwin shuffle behind you, impatient to strike. More discussion below, then: “Truth is, it’s not a good time for us. We’re in the middle of a hostile assault right now. Could you come back Tuesday, maybe two-ish?”

  You begin to clomp downward into the cave—loudly, obviously, sounding not in the least like a person who’s sneaking up. “It’ll only take me a few seconds. Just a quick read off the dial, a quick scribble in my record log, and then I’m out of your hair for—”

  You stop. The passage has led to a vast, dimly lit cavern. At the cavern’s center, encased in a transparent crystal block, is the naked body of Mythanda, unmoving, unbreathing. Her eyes are wide open, and she looks as if she has been frozen in the midst of taking a step—one leg lifted and forward, her right hand at waist level, reaching out to you, palm upward, her lips slightly parted as if about to utter the word “I ...” like “I need help” or “I’m trapped in here” or “I love you, Steffan McFessel.”

  “In there,” a voice hisses, “she’s more alluring than you’ve ever known her to be.” You turn to find yourself facing a tall, thin man garbed entirely in black, pointing a sleek handgun at you and the Mentors. Movement in the shadows indicates he has others backing him up.

  “What the hell have you done to her?” you demand.

  “Immortalized her beauty. And crushed her father’s power.” The whiteness of his sudden grin startles you.

  “His name is Icer,” explains a voice from the passageway behind you and Mentors. Beffles steps into the cavern. “And this expedition was doomed from the onset. One of our own party is in league with him.”

  This is no longer funny. Who is the traitor?

  a) Beffles. He’s a philosopher, a comedian, despotic, and he’s short. Perfect villain material. Proceed to Section V.

  b) Senecalius. Would you trust anyone with a fake, pretentious classical name? Proceed to Section W.

  c) Dorwin. Face it—he looks like a psychopath in a coxcomb. It’s got to be him. Proceed to Section X.

  SECTION U

  No more comic militarism. No more heroic sophistry. And no more time wasted trying to decide how to grab hold of true love, how to rescue the maiden in distress and live happily-ever-et cetera. You walk—not charge, not sneak, not slapstick saunter—to the cave’s entrance and descend a passageway into the darkness. Behind you, you hear the harshly whispered warnings of Dorwin and Senecalius, both insisting, ordering, that you come back.

  Well, screw them. You’ve made your choice.

  As you round a corner, two things immediately strike you: First, that Mythanda is there, at the very center of a cavern, encased in a block of ice; and, second, that your father is standing next to her, examining the encasement.

  “Dad?” you manage weakly. You hear the Mentors burst in behind you, but you hold up a hand to check their rush

  Your father turns and squints. “Eh? Oh, you. It’s Feffan McSteffle, right?”

  “Oh, Christ.” Your legs quiver, gelatinous. “What the hell have they done to you?”

  “Shown him reality,” a voice hisses from the darkness. You turn and face a tall, thin man garbed completely in black, pointing a sleek handgun at you and the Mentors. Movement in the shadows; others, then. “He’s learned the beauty of cold truth.”

  Your father nods like an idiot. “I remember. It was so cold. After you left, I ran out of old books to burn. I couldn’t figure out where you managed to salvage so many of them. When Icer found me, I was almost dead from cold.”

  “But the cold, in truth, heals,” the man in black says kindly to your father.

  “You’re with him?” you ask, dumbfounded. “You’re part of this maniac’s band of cryotherapists?”

  Your father beams. He’s become a total nutcase.

  “Run along now,” the man in black prods your father. “I’ve left a nice Sno-Cone waiting for you at the camp.” Your father rushes past you like a hyperactive child.

  “You bastard,” you growl at the man called Icer.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks with condescension. “Don’t like how the story’s going? Maybe forgot that most western literature invokes a father-son conflict?”

  You glance at Mythanda’s frozen form, and your hand grips tighter on the hilt of your sword. “Yes, it is just a story, isn’t it? And you and your cryotherapists are on the verge of becoming a pathetic footnote to the whole history.”

  “Uh, oh,” Icer remarks calmly. “A sudden plot twist. You’re about to be killed dead.” Where the cavern’s light fades to unseen walls, there is movement. But Icer isn’t looking that way. He’s staring beyond you, to the way you entered. “You see,” Icer gloats, “I’ve managed your every movement until now. Through espionage.”

  You turn to see Beffles in the passageway behind Dorwin and Senecalius. “He’s right,” Beffles confirms. “Our party has a traitor.

  Act now. Act fast. Who is the traitor?

  a) Beffles. He’s been acting suspicious all along. Perhaps there’s something to it. Proceed to Section V.

  c) Senecalius. People never really talk the way he does unless they’re hiding something. Proceed to Section W.

  b) Dorwin. He’s surly, violent, and one-eyed. Conspicuousness is sometimes the best disguise. Proceed to Section X.

  SECTION V

  Beffles, that scurrilous little traitor, stands smug, gloating, in the cave’s open passageway. The odds are now dramatically against you, Dorwin, and Senecalius, especially with Icer before you, his minions in the wings, and Beffles already flanking you.

  You know you have to do something. Right now. So you do. It’s the cleanest, most professional, most fluidly executed move of your apprenticeship career—palm to hilt, hilt to draw, draw to twist, twist to swipe, and before anyone even thinks to move, Beffles’s severed head rolls to a stop at Icer’s feet. The despotic philosopher’s expression is still smug, not even registering surprise.

  Icer arches a single eyebrow. “Good Senecalius,” he whispers, “is this clod in league with us?”

  “I�
��d not thought so until this very moment, my friend.” You notice that Senecalius’s sword is unmistakably targeted on Chief Jester Dorwin. Your mind shuts down. Something tells you that when the numbness subsides, you’re going to be feeling really, really bad about all this.

  “You little shit,” Dorwin utters through clenched teeth. “You stupid little shit.”

  Apologies and absolution will have to come later. You spin on heel and zero your swordpoint at Icer. “Free the girl,” you order. “Now.” But Icer keeps regarding you as more curiosity than threat. It’s unsettling.

  With the unpredictable impulsiveness you’ve come to expect from him, Dorwin leaps fully at Icer. Both men’s weapons are knocked free. You see concern flicker across Icer’s face for the first time. Their struggle slows to the deadlock of mutual wrestling holds, and you move to shift the advantage. You jump head-on into the two of them.

  Icer twists, staggers, and releases. Dorwin takes most of your impact, skidding backward across the floor, slamming full force into the base of the ice block imprisoning Mythanda, and staring helplessly as the block shifts, tips, and falls on him. The impact deafens like a thousand simultaneously shattered mirrors. When the ice stops skittering across the cave floor, you manage to make out the bloody pulp that was Dorwin. The bits of sharded flesh that were Mythanda are unrecognizable.

  “The boy has a habit of saving my life unwillingly.” Icer isn’t even breathing hard. “Shall we enlist him?”

  “I think not,” Senecalius says. “Perhaps you’ve not seen what happens to his allies?”

  Icer nods gravely. “Then I believe it’s time for us to storm the Regent’s palace, my Lord Senecalius.” He waves a hand, and the cryotherapist force moves quietly to the cavern’s exit. “With the Jester and the Prime Counsel out of the way, you’ll pull off the easiest coup in history.”

  “And you shall be handsomely rewarded for your assistance,” Senecalius vows.

  “I know,” Icer hisses.

  No one gives you a second look. No one stops to consider you. To kill you. Which is unfortunate. Never more than at this moment have you so wanted to be dead.

  Proceed to Section Y.

  SECTION W

  There’s a sudden swarm of movement as Icer’s cryotherapists rush from all sides. In what is perhaps the most awkward, clumsy, yet still awesomely effective move of your apprenticeship career, you grab the blade of traitor Senecalius’s drawn sword, ignore the pain and blood of your own hand, and shove the blade edge-on, full-force into Senecalius’s face. He blinks twice from the recessed sockets of his now-split cranium and drops to the floor.

  A pinprick sensation in your neck, a harsh whisper in your ear, the voice of Court Jester Dorwin. “Bad guess.”

  The cryotherapist crowd has enveloped the squirming, screaming Prime Counsel Beffles. The philosopher is begging for help. He’s calling out Senecalius’s name. He didn’t see you take out the Mentor, and he goes to his death clinging to the hope of Senecalius’s imminent rescue attempt.

  “Far easier than I’d imagined, Mr. Chief Jester.”

  Dorwin shoves you to the floor. “Sure as hell was. Maybe I shouldn’t be payin’ you so much.”

  Icer pretends surprise. “Now, now, friend Dorwin. Wasn’t I the one who suggested you execute your coup through stealth rather than outright assault? How well would you have fared if Regent Nicholas hadn’t sent out the majority of his forces on fruitless searches for his darling daughter? That strategy alone earns my full fee.”

  “Well, yeah,” Dorwin admits.

  They’re ignoring you. Their mistake. You leap to your feet, sword still in hand. “You’ve manipulated me long enough. The girl. Free her and hand her over.”

  Icer rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “What the hell is this kid ranting about?”

  Dorwin chuckles. “Ah, don’t worry about him. He’s got a hero complex workin’. Thinks he’s in love with the girl.”

  It bothers you that neither of them seems worried about your sword. “You’ve toyed with me for too long. If you plan to go on living, you’ll let her go.”

  Dorwin cuffs the back of your head, not even worried about your waving sword. “You boob! What the hell goes on in that puny brain of yours? None of this has anything to do with you! You’re here by accident. By coincidence.”

  Icer waves a hand to calm the Chief Jester’s rage. “Dorwin, Dorwin, you of all people should understand the fantasies of a young heart aspiring to adventure. We march on Nicholas tomorrow, so we’re done with the girl. If he wants her, let him have her.”

  Dorwin cocks his head. “Really?”

  “Certainly.” Icer raises his gun. “So tell me, boy, what attracts you to her? Her mind?” A single, sharp crack comes from Icer’s gun. It seems as if the ice block holding Mythanda just flecks a bit, but when the steam clears you see a small, bloodless hole in her forehead. “Perhaps you love her for her heart?” Another crack, and a similar hole appears on her left breast. “Wait,” Icer croons. “Now I know what it is.” The third hole is dead center pelvis. “There you go. All yours.”

  The sword slips from your limp hand. You sink to the floor, first to knees, then to elbows, then you cry.

  “Pathetic,” you hear Dorwin say. Then you hear dozens of feet marching up the passageway, out of the cave. Then you hear nothing.

  Proceed to Section Y.

  SECTION X

  An outright fight with Dorwin would be suicide. So you rush to the Chief Jester’s side, stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and, your sword out toward the others, ask, “Which one of them do you think it is?”

  The lying traitor shams careful consideration of your question. He never expects the quick thrust that enters his throat, exits the base of his skull. He falls to the floor, and you yank your sword from his corpse.

  “Now that’s weird,” Beffles says. “Because all this time I’ve been pretty sure that I’m the traitor.”

  “My God!” Senecalius bellows. He makes a break for the exit, and Beffles steps aside to allow him passage, offering a courtly bow and an extended hand to urge him along.

  “Run!” the Prime Counsel invites. “But there’s nowhere to go. Our forces have already taken Capitol. Nicholas has every main unit out in the wilderness looking for the girl. It was hardly a fight at all to usurp the Conglomerate.”

  Senecalius hesitates, but then bolts up the passageway, ignoring your pleas that he stay with you and fight it out. You hear a muffled explosion from just beyond the mouth of the cave. Beffles, studying his fingernails, announces, “Oh, by the way, Icer. I dug out a couple of your spare land mines. I think Senecalius found where I left them.”

  You dive, roll off your shoulder, and land on your feet in a protective stance in front of Mythanda’s ice prison. “What you didn’t count on,” you say menacingly, “is me.”

  The cryotherapists, Icer, and Beffles look at you for a moment. Then they go about their business, gathering gear, conversing excitedly amongst themselves.

  “Hey!” you yell. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Give it a rest, kid,” Beffles says. “Fight’s over.”

  Your sword wavers. “But, Mythanda. You’ve got to let her out. Revive her. You’ve got to.”

  Beffles guffaws at the suggestion. “Revive her? What are you, dim? These twits don’t know the first thing about cryogenics. Most of them are whacko, kid!”

  Icer waves a finger. “Not true. We’re close. Just a little more time, that’s all we need. And a research grant from your new government. We’re so close.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Beffles dismisses the assertion. “But the girl’s gone, McFessel. Has been since day one. We just needed to buy time to get Nicholas’s forces as far from Capitol as possible.”

  You slump against the cold of what you’d assumed was Mythanda’s prison, what you now know is her grave. “Then kill me, too. Please.
Kill me.”

  “Sorry, kid, no time. Got a government to claim. And you people!” Beffles yells to the exiting horde of cryotherapists. “Watch your step out there! Couple more live mines, you know!”

  Icer and Beffles are the last to leave. “Kill me!” you scream at their departing backs. “Kill me, kill me!”

  “The kid has a hero complex,” the waning echo of Beffles’s voice explains to Icer. “He really thought he was the focal point of some glorious adventure quest ...”

  The voice fades away. You keep leaning against the ice block, alive. Alone.

  Proceed to Section Y.

  SECTION Y

  All you ever really wanted to do was sit and read. That’s how life was before all this, and it was fine with you. But you were forced into choices. You played along. You knew the only way to escape the story was to take it over from the inside.

  For hours you sit there in the cave, mulling that.

  You caused the deaths of your few allies.

  You failed to save the girl.

  You’re denied the nobility of a tragic death.

  The Regent’s government is overthrown because of you.

  No, not even that. Not even the bitter sting of having caused anything. You were extraneous. Without you, the same people would have died, just a bit differently. The same coup would have occurred. Mythanda would be dead. The final outcome would have come out just as final.

  But you were prime for an adventure, weren’t you? The perfect reluctant hero. The right age. The right demographic. A whole life of choices ahead of you, choices that had to, just had to work out in the end.

  Your name is Steffan McFessel. The final insult: Your apprenticeship has worked well. You have learned the trite heroism, the ironic comedy, the bald, cold, blatant philosophy of nihilism. You have been irrelevant.

  a) Life couldn’t possibly be this unfair. If you had another chance, you would make better choices. Start over.