“I am wont to take such advisories literally,” declares Senecalius. “We would be foolhardy to march in blindly.” His fellows agree that the most prudent course of action would be to exercise caution by sending you in first as a scout. They follow at fifty paces, swords ready.
The woods are mossy, dank, and deep. You promise yourself not to be frightened, and do a pretty good job keeping that promise until the hollow, rasping voice demands, “Tell me.” You turn. The voice’s owner is ten feet tall, sports a gnarled talon at the end of each tendril-like arm, and, most curious, is translucent.
The Mentors come running at the sound of your scream. Chief Jester Dorwin arrives first, launching into a brilliant mid-air flip, blade extended and knees tucked tight against his chest as he flies at, then through, the creature, crashing to a sprawl on the far side.
“Tell me,” the creature moans.
You see Dorwin sizing up the creature, looking like he’s deciding whether another brilliant launch might be in order. Beffles clumps forward, indignant. “Identify yourself, weird beast!”
“I am Zeitgeist,” the creature intones. “Much of your human race is now extinct, and I starve from the dearth of tales. Tell me again the stories of mankind.”
Senecalius snorts. “This is ridiculous. Of course you are not Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist is simply a conceptual logism, a mere semiotic designation meant to—”
The creature sinks one of its talons into Senecalius’s chest. There is no tear, no puncture, it simply passes through. Then Senecalius begins to glow, a white aura flowing around his body, up the tendril arm of Zeitgeist. When the flow stops, Senecalius crumples to an indelicate heap on the forest floor, eyes empty, breathing shallow.
“His soul is bland,” the creature laments. “All logic, theorem, and tactic with little story.” Zeitgeist shifts to face Beffles. “Tell me.” The despotic philosopher pales. Dorwin still makes no move. The creature extends a talon.
“Wait!” you scream, and then you sputter, “It-was-the-best-of-times-it-was-the-worst-of-times!”
The creature withdraws his talon from Beffles. It tilts its head, assessing you as if you were a queer, unexpected creature yourself. Then it sits on the forest floor. “Tell me,” it says.
You tell him, shakily at first, then with calmer voice and growing, genuine emotion, a paraphrase of a tale about two cities. You finish that in half an hour. Beffles and Dorwin still remain cautious, actionless, so you tell the creature, “Call me Ishmael.” This story you relate with surges of emotion, editorializing with grandiose critique. “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff,” you start later, and “At a village of La Mancha whose name I do not wish to remember,” and “John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades,” and “In the beginning, God created—“ and so on. The creature sits wordless, enraptured. Just before sundown, you begin the critical tale: “Now that the radiation has pretty much died out, and people have started building new villages far away from any of the old cities, and the east and west coasts have stopped burning, mostly, your father turns from where he’s sitting by the campfire burning some Steinbeck for warmth and says, ‘Son, civilization will be starting up again soon.’“
You tell that tale. You tell of choices, of a beautiful girl named Mythanda, of kidnapping cryotherapists, of your mission’s criticality, of sitting down in Nebraska National Forest to tell stories to a Zeitgeist.
Then you stop. You wait.
The creature nods once, serenely. “I realize, young man, that this trick owes homage to the Arabian Nights.”
“I knew you’d catch that,” you say. “I figured you’d respect it.”
“I do.” It chuckles, resonant and sad. “But mostly, I’d like to know what happens next.” The creature again thrusts a talon into Senecalius’s chest. The air around the comatose Commander shimmers. “I’ll give back your minor character’s soul. You may need him later in the plot.”
Beffles finally moves, coaxing Senecalius to his feet. Dorwin edges a wary perimeter around the beast, rejoining your party. You stand and back away slowly.
“Return some day, young man,” Zeitgeist says. “I’d like to know how this story ends.”
“I will,” you say, meaning it.
Proceed to Section P.
SECTION P
Your search for the Heisenbergian cryotherapists and for Mythanda is now reaching the close of its second week, and desperation to find any clue whatsoever has sent the party east, north, and now, finally, in a committed southerly direction. In the few hundred square miles you’ve covered, you’ve discovered an intriguing truth about Nebraska: It’s really flat. In other circumstances, that observation would be pedestrian. But you can’t help thinking that if there were any clue of Mythanda’s whereabouts, it couldn’t remain hidden long in this stretch of doldrum.
“We’re doing something wrong,” you mutter as you stare into the campfire. The party is well south into Lincoln County, camped a few yards from the banks of Red Willow.
Dorwin grunts once at your comment, noncommittal, but Senecalius murmurs accord. “Agreed, Asswipe. This futile, proctalgiac meandering befogs our mission’s exigency.”
“And we ain’t gettin’ nowhere, fast,” Dorwin adds.
“I don’t think we’re even close,” says Beffles.
“That was way too close this time,” he complains to his colleague. “Those dolts have almost caught up to us or stumbled across our campsites five times already!”
“I can’t figure it out,” the colleague says. “It’s like they know every detail of our escape route.”
“They’ll continue to fall short in their attempts to capture us,” their leader, the man called Icer, hisses. “One of them is, after all, on our side.”
The colleagues whistle low. “Cold, very cold,” they say, impressed.
“For God’s sake,” you sputter, “I don’t even know what a cryotherapist is.”
“They’re jerks,” Beffles snaps. “A crazy little cult of post-Last-War pseudo-scientist revolutionaries.”
“They espouse a nearly fanatical belief,” says Senecalius, “that all ailments, physical, spiritual, or sociological, can be healed through the application of diminished temperature.”
“Better livin’ through frigidity,” grunts Dorwin.
You’re confused. “So why are they called Heisenbergian cryotherapists? What’s Heisenbergian about that?”
“No, no, they’re called Hegelian cryotherapists,” says Beffles. “They see themselves as the antithesis of plebeian belief in the benefits of warmth. They feel they have to smash against the accepted thesis until a new order rises.”
Dorwin shakes his head with vehemence. “Listen, pal, they’re called Heideggerian cryotherapists. They say they’re makin’ a sorta leap of faith into a freeze-dried belief thing that’ll restore civilization. Unless we stop ‘em, they’re gonna leap right onto the Regent’s head and take over Conglomerate, the only post-Last-War society showing any stayin’ power.”
Senecalius tsk-tsks. “Our apprentice is right. It’s Heisenberg, based on their admission of their methodology’s uncertainty. They experiment endlessly on unwilling human subjects. Those who do not manage to improve through Cold Treatment applications—that would be the majority of their kidnapped victims—are deemed anomalies. ‘The Unpredictable Majority’ is what I believe they call their frost-death victims. ‘Who’d have guessed it would hurt them?’ they say. Uncertainty. Solid Heisenberg.”
“Okay, okay,” you say, still juggling the assertions of your party of Mentors. “But whether it’s Heisenberg, Heidegger, or Hegel, they’re always referred to as the ‘cryotherapists of Ogallala,’ right?”
“Indeed/yes/uh-huh,” they all agree.
You tap an anxious foot, weighing how they might react to your next point. “Since Ogallala, Nebraska is on the Platte River to the west of Conglomerate Capitol, why the hell aren
’t we going in that direction?”
Another two logs burn before anyone responds. “I believe we shall travel west to Ogallala with first light,” Senecalius avers before all of you bed for the night.
The fire is doused and you lie down. The night is an endless pitch of featureless landscape, but deeply bright above with stars. Before you fall asleep, Prime Counsel Beffles crawls over to your bed mat. “And I think,” he whispers, “that we’ve seriously underestimated the abilities of apprentice Steffan McFessel.”
You can’t decide whether that assertion elates you or gives you reason to worry. You dream of Mythanda all night. You dream of saving her from the clutches of evil usurpers, of winning her heart, and of finding true romance at the end of this unwelcome quest.
Proceed to Section Q.
SECTION Q
The trek westward is short, but arduous. Rain hampers your every step, but you press onward, fueled by conviction that your fruitless wanderings are near an end. Soon, just east of Ogallala, Nebraska, you come across irrigation trenches and small dumpsites, evidence of a nearby populace. The dumpsites yield your first clues: discarded syringes, rubber gloves, battered ice cube trays, promotional tracts headlined, “Freedom Thru Freeze at Camp Cryotherapy!” Not much farther, and you come upon the barbed-wired, fenced-in boundaries of a small settlement. The Cryotherapist Camp.
Dorwin points through the scrub. “They got prisoners. Those three, by the well. Look pretty beat up, too.”
“If those buildings are barracks,” Senecalius notes, “there may be dozens of others.”
You consider this for a moment. Whatever you do, you’ll have to be careful. There are lives at stake here. Mythanda’s is one of them. You have to think big ...
“You do realize they’re right at our front door, don’t you?” the colleague asks.
“They haven’t a chance,” Icer answers.
The colleague grunts. “I hope you’re right.”
Icer smiles. “Destiny is on our side.”
“We surrender!” you yell, arms high. The Mentors follow suit, standing with you. The rubber mat in front of the gate reads “Welcome to Camp Cryo” in worn letters.
“You what?” a voice asks from behind the front gate.
“We give up, can’t take any more! Do what you will!”
You hear muttered voices inside, ranging from “New ones usually have to be dragged in,” to “God dammit, I answered the gate last time.” The iron-reinforced door creaks open. You see four men in white lab coats, all carrying shotguns.
“Uh, hi,” says the closest one. “If you could just follow me to your cells, I—”
You abruptly yank the welcome mat from the ground and lash at the cryotherapist’s head with it. The corner catches his eye, and with a scream, he loses his grip on his weapon. You catch it, roll onto your stomach, and fire. The shot goes wild, missing the three remaining men, but a muffled explosion resounds behind them. Just as they are about to open fire on your party, a fiery blast bursts from the Camp’s interior, blowing the gate off its hinges and onto the gunmen, crushing them.
No time to waste. You scramble from your position and dive over the wreckage, your gun now wielded as a club. But as you scan the courtyard, you see no further opposition. In fact, the only movement you see is the waving of hands through a barred window in one of the barracks.
You jog to the barracks and smash the lock with the shotgun’s butt. When you open the door, a torrent of humanity streams out. They are bruised, malnourished, all shivering. Some of their extremities are tinged with the blackness of non-circulation. Others lack fingers and toes.
“You blew up their cold storage unit,” one captive says, awed. “That’s where they experimented on us.”
“I’m looking for a young woman,” you say. “About my age, long blonde hair.”
“The VIP,” an older prisoner offers. “We heard about her when she first came, but she didn’t stay with us. They keep her in the cave.” He points out a cave entrance in the hillside banking the Camp. You acknowledge with a nod.
The Mentors help the more enfeebled prisoners out into the warm air. Beffles looks profoundly disturbed by their condition. “A lot of these folks are on the brink of death. Someone’s got to stay here and save them.”
“Stay and tend, Prime Counsel,” Senecalius says. “We three shall suffice to deal with their remaining forces.”
Dorwin turns to you. “Cave fight. What do you think?”
“I think,” you say, eyeing the quest’s final objective, “that destiny is on our side.”
Now that you know where the cave is, how do you approach it?
a) Burst in heroically. You’re on a roll. Proceed to Section R.
b) Don’t press your luck. Take a cautious, philosophical approach. Proceed to Section S.
c) Let’s just see who laughs last. Take a comedic approach. Proceed to Section T.
d) It doesn’t matter how, just get there. Proceed to Section U.
SECTION R
After quick but careful planning, you decide attack the cave in a frontal assault, even after you learn that the cave serves as the cryotherapist’s main weapons hold. But you don’t care. Heros shirk fear in the face of adversity. Your sword will do fine. Senecalius and Dorwin are less enthusiastic about the strategy, but agree to go along with you if they get to hold position a safe distance behind you.
You reach the cave entrance with surprisingly little resistance. A few random gunshots seem aimed in your direction, but none comes close to hitting. A trap perhaps? The False-Sense-of-Security Ruse? You wonder as you follow the cave’s descending passageway.
You see Mythanda.
Without hesitation, you rush in to stand before your true love. The Mentors swear at your impetuousness, but they join you, swords ready.
All you can do is stare at the Regent’s daughter.
She is encased in what looks to be a block of ice, which you verify by touching the cold, wet surface. You gaze at Mythanda’s perfect face within the glassy prison, and imagine the smooth touch of her skin as you trace a finger across the ice just inches above her cheek.
“Going for a quick fondle, are we?” an icy voice hisses.
You whirl left and find yourself facing a tall, thin man garbed completely in black, pointing a sleek handgun at you and the Mentors. Coalescing your knowledge of literary stereotypes, you conclude that this must be The Bad Guy.
“Whatever you’ve done to her,” you say menacingly, “you’d better undo it right now.”
The man grins. “You are a fool.” With that, you hear telltale shuffling beyond the torch-lit dimness, sounds of weapons scraping against rock walls, low, sadistic chuckles.
You squint into darkness for unseen opponents but speak to the man in black. “We’ve bested a whole camp of your lackeys. What makes you think this remnant can stop us?”
The man in black casually yanks a stray thread from his leather glove. “Because, boy, you underestimate the situation you and your ... loyal friends are in.”
“And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?” Senecalius challenges. “Mister ...?”
“Icer,” the man says calmly. “Let’s just say you’re in the dark about a few interesting business arrangements.”
“He’s right,” you hear from the cave mouth. Amid the murmurs of the cryotherapists, Beffles steps inside, his sword drawn. “There’s a traitor in our own group.”
“And,” Icer adds, “he’s led you right here to this cave, just as planned.”
After quick consideration, you conclude that it’s not you. But that leaves you with three choices.
Who is the traitor?
a) Beffles. Philosophers always have their own agendas. Proceed to Section V.
b) Senecalius. A military man, through and through. He’d sell out to the better armed force in a minute. Proceed to Section W.
c) Dorwin. Double-bluffs work
well as practical jokes. Proceed to Section X.
SECTION S
After a short discussion with Chief Jester Dorwin and Commander Senecalius, you decide to approach the cave from the back to search for a subtler means of entry. Kierkegaard may have had some odd ideas in his time, but inherent human concern for physical existence wasn’t one of them.
You suffer only a few scrapes and scratches as you climb uphill through scrub and, after a series of short sprints, maneuver cautiously to the back. There, you spy a fissure in the rock, just large enough to pass through sideways. This strategic entrance is unguarded.
Mentor Dorwin volunteers to scout inside and signal if everything is clear. Roughly a minute passes before his arm appears through the fissure to wave you inside. You follow.
After squeezing your way in, three things catch your eye: You see Mythanda, more beautiful than when you last saw her, encased in what looks to be a block of ice. You see Dorwin surrounded by three vicious-looking individuals, all with swords at his neck. You see a man dressed completely in black, pointing a gun at you and Senecalius.
You prioritize these observations and demand, “What have you done to her?”
“Too many tempting cliches dealing with cold come to mind for me to answer directly,” the man in black says in a chilled voice.
“Can’t we just waste them, Icer?” one of Dorwin’s captors asks. “I thought that’s why we lured them here.”
“In due course,” Icer answers. “We must have ample time to gloat first.”
“Gloat? About how you’ve slaughtered innocents?” you shoot back. “About how you kidnap people’s daughters and ... experiment or whatever on them?”
“Oh, nothing so gauche,” Icer says. “I was thinking more of how we’ve been able to manipulate your party without so much as lifting a finger.” He shrugs. “Anyone can slaughter innocents, but imposing your will on others while giving them the illusion of free choice is an entirely different matter.”
“He’s right,” you hear a familiar voice say. The cryotherapists shuffle uneasily as Beffles steps into the torch-lit area, sword drawn.
Proceed to Section Z Page 3