The boy known as Prince spent the beginning of his sixteenth birthday kneeling in front of what was known as a throne.
It was not a coronation he prepared for, but death.
It was not a palace he occupied, but a bathroom.
Finally, his vomit poured out of him and filled the toilet. Wincing at the color, he rose and flushed. There was not much in him to begin with, and even less now.
Some said that that was useful. While burly uncles, men whom fate had decided to spare for another day, sat around and got drunk and bemoaned their occupation, their bulk was no use in evading the inevitable. The largest and strongest men, despite their boasts, were as vulnerable as anyone else.
But some whispered that wit was the answer. The small and the bright, the sharp and the brilliant, could defeat the mines. Numbers were the key, rumor had it.
Of course numbers were the key. He was sixteen. Two to the fourth or four to the second: either way, the symmetrical powers signified that it was time. It was a number for squares.
But he was too young, he thought, or perhaps it was just an excuse masking the human self-preservation instinct. He had no children. Many boys tried to, impregnating the unknown so that they could leave something behind. Prince, however, did not want to be responsible for bringing someone else into this dystopia. His name was reason enough: the consequence of a people starved for hope, desperate to believe in future glory.
For sixteen years he had been educated, but not until he stared at the spiral into the drain did he realize how futile it was. Smiley faces, that was all. Stupid stickers for winning a game at school. The record-setters got sunglasses. And none of it would mean anything once he was blown up. Perhaps they could count the peeling stickers to identify his corpse: he'd won sixteen times.
His mother hugged him as he exited. Women never had to be sweepers: a few idiots chose, but this one had the fortune of growing old, a gift of her gender. His vomit had caused something to rise out of his nose as well: it dribbled onto her. She didn't mind.
"I love you," they whispered. Then he set out.
He passed his friends' houses: several of the survivors had come for a celebration in advance of the party. All of his friends were geeky as he was-and disproportionately many were still alive. He was the youngest of his clique. A prodigy? Or just a fluke?
The lonely walk to the minefields began. By the time he got there, he was already tired.
A young man waved to him. "Hey, kid. First day on the job?" He was not much older than Prince himself. People became veterans quickly in their job.
"Yep."
"Cool. You want a beginners' field, try over there."
Carefully, Prince followed in the direction the finger was pointing. First, he walked around the perimeter. Eight squares by eight. Ten flags were strewn on the side for his convenience. He had heard of legends that never used the flags, but he was no fool. He might not be a survivor either, but he would use any tool he had.
"Need any help with the jump?" an intermediate sweeper asked. Most people began by leaping into the center of the field.
"Nah, I'm gonna come on from the edge."
"Okay." The other sweeper got a running start and leapt into the middle. He sensed the squares around him. "One," he muttered under his breath.
Prince felt sorry for him. While some bizarre quirk always protected people on their first test, knowing that one of the eight squares surrounding the sweeper was fatal didn't do much. The fortunate got "dragons", as they were called: irregular boundaries of squares bursting open all around them. Sometimes these dragons contained "islands": mines surrounded by squares touching no other mine. The effect could be almost comical at times, as a circle of blue surrounded it.
But the intermediate would jump again. Crouching his legs, he took off, propelled far beyond his square, and landed in another. Immediately, the mine detonated. Prince watched in morbid curiosity as the man burst into flame. He had heard of the common tragedies, but never witnessed one.
With this image seared on his mind, he stepped onto his field. It was the fifth square from the left of the corner.
Nothing happened. No neighboring squares opened, his did not change color, no number seared across his mind.
Then, slowly, as if from in front of him, trumpet music began to play.
This was not supposed to happen. He had not studied this.
All across the field, in the eight squares of the row in front of him, the music crescendoed. Prince turned to run, but found he was stuck in his square. He could only wait as the music reached a climax, and then slowly faded.
"You have come," announced a bodiless voice.
"I-me?"
"Yes." It seemed to be coming from directly in front of him.
"Yes, I have. This isn't right!"
"It has never been right. But you have come. You will remedy it."
"What?"
"The game. The game that has destroyed your people."
"I want to clear the mines." It was the first time he had said, or thought, such a thing, but he believed it. Nobody wanted to, not even the long-term survivors who bragged of their exploits. "I want to make it safe. So people don't have to do it again."
"You will not have to, not anymore."
"Then can I go?"
"No."
"What are you? Why have you brought me here?"
And they came into view around him: fifteen of them, and he the sixteenth. Eight smileys in front, stony figures parallel to him.
Across the field, fifteen more, and another living boy across from him. Another birthday child.
"We have brought you here," said the smiley in front of him, "to end the game."
"We have brought you here," echoed its parallel to Prince's counterpart, "to begin anew."
"Where are the mines?" Prince asked.
"There are no mines," explained the smiley in front of him. "Your people have sacrificed enough. There will still be destruction, but it is our turn now."
"We will not hurt you." promised the smiley across the board "You are our kings."
And he leapt out two squares, into the middle of the board. Prince's did likewise, and the game was on.