KINGS HALL — THE CITY
SIX YEARS AND A HALF BEFORE SHADOW AND THORN MEET — 11 SEPTEMBER 2030
Twenty-year-old Rosa stood in a large medieval reception hall. Above her hung an intricate false hammer-beam ceiling carved of teak. She scoffed at the paintings of men covering the stone walls, some she could recognize, and all leaving a foul taste in her mouth. Looking down on her, the portraits of renowned inventors, conquerors, and explorers, all sharing a dirty track record of enslavement, appropriation, and terror.
The scenario was so predictable she rolled her eyes as soon as she had opened them. She had entered Down Below for the first time, and the literality of the place astounded her. There was nothing nuanced about it. She was facing power, and she didn’t like power much. In fact, she didn’t like power at all. It irked her the place was called Kings Hall, but what would one expect from two rich white dudes?
If she were to learn a lesson about compliance or order or peaceful dissent, they could have at least been kind enough to make her face a mighty queen, one who had been crowned by adversity. Any ruler who wasn’t a straight white male would do. She’d be much less resistant to the brainwashing if a black trans woman sat at the throne wearing the St. Edward’s Crown adorned with 444 precious stones. That would have been wicked, but nah. A tall man stood in front of the throne with his back to her. To show off his power, he wore a golden crown and a luxurious red cape adorned with Christ’s cross. She sighed. What the hell am I supposed to learn from this? Is this a metaphor for the story of my life?
After several altercations with power at home and abroad, the justice system had mandated Rosa to use Down Below as part of a rehabilitation program that kept thousands of young activists out of the prison system. An incident in Davos had been her most serious offense and had landed her in hot water with the government. She smiled, proud of her achievement.
She had managed to delay her punishment for almost two years, but the case manager’s last warning had been crystal clear—either she traveled Down Below immediately, or she’d be thrown in jail.
Rosa looked down. In her hand, a pistol. It looked like one of the laser pistols she used in her pentathlon competitions. Her loud laughter bounced around the room, and she didn’t waste any time. Narrowing her eyes, she scanned the figure in front of her—the regal bot. She loaded the weapon, and her eyes locked on his back. Taking a breath, Rosa approached the target directly and fired at the cross’s left arm without flinching. Surprised, she realized the pistol shot real ammo, and the man wailed as the large nail hit his shoulder blade.
“Nails and crosses … makes sense.” She lit a cigar. Puzzled with all the symbols, she took a moment to guess what was the prediction driving the experience.
“Think before you shoot, Rosa,” said the bot, still standing with his back to her.
“Frack you. Frack this. You can’t crush my mind.” She shot again, this time aiming at his right arm.
For a moment, the Underling collapsed over the throne, gripping the kingly chair’s wood-carved arms. “Things are not always what they seem, Rosa.” His voice broke as he spoke, and out of pity, she chewed on the cigar. She laughed it off, sounding annoyingly nervous.
The crown’s gold melted over his hair and shoulders, uncovering another crown, one made of thorns. She seethed; another symbol, the most toxic of them all, and this time, she aimed for his head.
“There’s strength in love, Rosita, mi amor.” The voice’s pitch and intonation had altered slightly. She knew that voice. The machine was messing with her mind. “Love, Rosita. Amor.”
As she was about to pull the trigger, the bot turned around, and its face made Rosa shiver; in it were Jesus’s features, her mother’s eyes, and an enthralling beauty that pulled her in and robbed her self-determination. The face emanated an intoxicating mix of love and pain, paralyzing her finger on the pistol’s trigger.
“Think before you strike, Rosa,” he said, and this time, she paid attention as his voice echoed in the Hall. “Raging blindness—an eye for an eye. Pain unleashing pain. So much darkness—an endless cycle. Never spar with death of any kind, Rosa. La vida es sagrada.”
Golden eyes on her mother’s pious face. Drops of blood from prickly crowns of thorns. The end of pain within her reach—love for a baby sister. As she was about to drop the pistol, a white dove appeared out of nowhere and flew right by her face, releasing her from his spell. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Just a preachy bot in a made-up world. Mind-controlling software bringing them all to their knees. No!
“Frack love.” She shot him in the eye. The bot dropped dead. “Get me the hell out of here. This experience is over.”