Author's Note:

As the summary says, you don't have to have read or seen Cymbeline to enjoy this novel. It can stand alone.

Still, go read or see Cymbeline. It's Shakespeare's best play.

No, really.

Really.

I don't even remember why I started reading it. I do remember gluing myself to the screen, falling through the text in a panicked haze, desperate to know what happened next. I finished it in a single sitting and stayed up the rest of the night, hopping around my room, waiting for someone else to wake up so I could tell them how good this freaking play is, oh my god, oh my god, you guys, you don't understand. And nobody did. Nobody ever does.

You think that pompous, wispy asswipe Hamlet is a better protagonist than brave, spirited, loving Imogen? WHY?! I'LL KILL YOU!

The novel started as a simple idea: Cymbeline set in the American west. But the U.S. doesn't have kings, so the Fifty States became the Fifty Kingdoms. I wanted modern technology, so the cyberpunk elements appeared. But cell phones could solve everything, and I wanted the Iachimo character to be an ostrich-riding cowboy, so supernatural weather patterns moved in to disrupt communications and transportation. And so on, till the giant world of the novel built itself: mutants and fusion monsters, Vegas oracles and chemical warfare, Odysseus helmets and superpowered Mormons. Everything you never knew you needed when it came to Shakespeare.

It's huge. It's complete. And, despite all the decorations, it's still Cymbeline. Enjoy.

American Cymbeline cast:

Imogen…...…Imogen Alameda

Posthumus Leonatus…...…Leon Sands

Cymbeline…...…Cymbeline Alameda

Queen...…Bianca Alameda

Cloten…...…Travis McGowan

Iachimo…...….Anahuac ("Anna-whack") Jack

Pisanio…...….Hector

Belarius…...…Dr. Kalia Morgan

Guiderius…...…Gideon Alameda/Henry Graham

Arviragus…...…Henry Morgan and Elena Graham

Philario…...…John Falstaff

Caius Lucius…...….General Lloyd

Cornelius…...…The pharmacist

At ninety-five miles per hour, a four-wheeled cycle the size of an elephant raced up Mission Bay Drive, just ahead of a raging sootstorm. Fancy silver script on its hind tireguard spelled out "CLAW." It had been named for its tendency to claw up pavement when its immense weight and foot-deep treads met the Kingdom of California's increasingly shabby roads.

Driving the Claw was a tiny, sleek figure dressed helmet-to-heel in glittery mica-flecked purple. She bashed a dainty gloved fist on her control screen, which was flickering on and off due to the interference of the weather. Behind her, the dense soot cloud thrashed San Diego, gnawing the roadsign edges.

A hundred yards ahead, a palm tree lost its fight with the wind and snapped into a ninety-degree angle, halving a billboard that declared, "King Cymbeline drinks Jupiter Cola!" Or it had said that until a tagger replaced "Jupiter" with "JIZZ" and an impressive illustration.

The storm caught the woman at last.

She shrieked at the increasing darkness, and when her screen flashed off again, taking her headlight with it, she stood up on the front wheelguard, lifted a knee, and began whanging the whole control panel with her six-inch heel. The Claw careened wildly across both lanes and back. At each swerve, its tires dug zigzag patterns of new potholes.

The screen shattered on the fifth whang and vomited up a gush of sparks. The woman settled back down on her seat and opened the throttle.

Minutes later she and the storm arrived at Castle Santa Clara, a tall building of mirrored graphene overlooking San Diego's prettiest beach. She didn't quite wait for the retracting iron doors to open for her. The Claw bashed twin imprints of its back tires into them before coming to a crunching, squealing stop in the center of the castle's underground garage.

The doors couldn't close behind the woman, thanks to the damage, but she hopped off her perch and stormed up the concrete steps without a backwards glance.

"FIX IT!" she shrieked at the garage attendant, whose wifebeater tank was already blackened by the soot whipping its way through the broken seal. A door in the stairwell slammed behind her.

The attendant sighed, pulled well-worn scuba goggles over his eyes and nose, and drawled, "'Kay, Your Majesty."

The woman – Queen Bianca of California – stalked through the castle, nailing heel holes in the carpet imported from the Idaho Empire. A trail of black dust followed her. Filth poured out of her helmet once she managed to wrench it off and dump it carelessly behind her. None of the soot stuck to her face or her sugar-blonde hair.

Behind her, assistants who had been still to the point of invisibility began peeling themselves away from the walls to gather her things. Like most of the workers in the castle, these were blinders – the politically incorrect term for slaves with severe albinism. Bianca had brought the word back into fashion when she purchased an entire set of blinders to go with the castle the day after she married King Cymbeline. At her insistence, each kept his or her white hair long and straight, and they wore crisp white suits. Standing still, they had the impressive appearance of marble statues. "Bianca's blinders" were a large part of Castle Santa Clara's tourist appeal.

"Husband!" she squawked, marching across the visitation hall and sending staff diving for cover. "HUSBAND! COME!"

"Yes, darling?"

King Cymbeline wandered out from behind his throne, engrossed in the large vidpad he carried. He was a reedy, grasshopper-like man, no bigger than his wife, with thick glasses and an aimless way of moving. His crown, a thin circlet of platinum and gold, was a centimeter out of alignment.

Bianca's fingers hardened into hooks at the sight of him. She tried to dress him well – wide suits, shoulderpads, broad lines. Somehow he could never manage to look like a king. Instead he projected, to her and every goddamn camera in California, the image of a slow child playing dress-up.

The queen swallowed her disgust, plastered on a beauty pageant smile, and said, "Hail, hail, hail. Dearest dear, love of my life, defender of my kingdom, lord of my soul. I'm afraid I need someone shot."

The king blinked.

"Immediately, please," she added. Her smile creaked as it tugged her plastic cheekbone implants.

"Shot," Cymbeline repeated. He stared at the top pic – a paparazzi-shot of his daughter wrapped around a handsome, tattooed young man – half a minute before clicking the vidpad off, tucking it into his pocket, and turning toward the throne.

Bianca's lip curled. The throne was where the king sat when they argued. The position made him feel powerful.

"Dearest, don't sit," she cooed, trying to keep the broken glass in her throat from reaching her voice. "There's nothing to discuss. It's rather important to me, and the sootstorm is the perfect time, so if you could simply choose another day to be difficult – HUSBAND. I BELIEVE I TOLD YOU TO NOT SIT DOWN."

The small man, whom Bianca often reflected she could break with a well-placed kick, hesitated at her tone of voice, hovering over his throne.

"Who am I to shoot, exactly?" he asked.

"Have shot, you adorable man. You're the king. You'll send someone. It's Brotherman Dougal."

Cymbeline winced.

And sat.

Damn him.

"Darling," he began.

"Don't you darling me," she snapped.

"A king can't go around shooting priests, sweetness. Especially priests who are due to testify in a capital treason case in an hour. Tell me what he's done, and I'll make it right after the trial."

"Dougal's not going to testify."

"And why is that?"

"I've already shot him!" Queen Bianca puffed out her lower lip. Why did Cymbeline always have to question? It wasn't like he ever denied her requests.

Cymbeline dug his pathetically thin fingers into his temple, as if he could massage his wife away.

"So you need to give the order and make it official," Bianca pressed. "For me?"

The king frowned. A weak frown.

"For me," she confirmed. "Splendid, darling. Thank you so much. I'll take care of the press. Just needed your seal on the order."

A small wave of Cymbeline's hand prompted the arms of his throne to peel up. One rose to his face and performed a series of scans to confirm his identity. The other opened into a screen and a keypad covered in symbols only the king, his daughter, and his computers could interpret. It was specifically for executive orders such as pre-emptive assassinations. He typed on it, a few bursts of movement, then yanked his fingers back as if burned.

The throne arms folded themselves away.

"Anything else?" Cymbeline asked. "The trial is about to begin, but you could always tell me the verdict now."

"Don't attempt sarcasm, your grace," said Bianca. "You don't have the knack."

Cymbeline pressed the earpiece that jutted from his crown. A small microphone extended down his jawline.

"It's time," he said, and his voice rang through the castle.

The double doors at the end of the throne room opened, and a small procession entered. This would be a private trial, with only the jury for witnesses. It had been scheduled to coincide with the sootstorm because one of the defendants was famous, and no one wanted the paparazzi banging at the castle walls. Not for this.

Once the jurors were assembled – not civilian jurors, but bishops, because treason trials were too important for anyone but kings and god to try – the Schema of San Francisco led the small procession of attorneys and witnesses, who likewise took their places standing.

The defendants were led in last.

They were a couple, a young man and woman, both of them tall and extremely good-looking.

The young man's kind, open face and flashing smile caught almost every eye in the room, including those of the queen, though she adjusted her expression when she caught Cymbeline looking at her, eyebrows up.

He didn't stop looking.

What did he want?

His eyebrows went higher, and he shifted awkwardly. What…

Oh. He'd forgotten his lines.

Delightful.

"Hail," she said.

"Hail, hail, hail," the small crowd answered smartly – including the defendants.

"These lovely people stand here accused of treason against king and country. No need for opening statements, the king watches the news. But we might not need a trial at all!" Bianca trilled out a giggle. She turned to the young man. "Leon Sands. Treason. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty."

Cymbeline suddenly came to life beside Bianca. "And you," he said, blinking hard and gripping his chair, which Bianca knew meant he was trying his utmost to keep himself in the moment.

He licked his lips, then pulled a sentence together. "Imogen Alameda, the charge is treason. How do you plead?"

The young woman set her jaw, stood a hair straighter, and said, "Not guilty, Father."