The Imperium Game (20 page)

“She is Amaelia Julia Metullus.” The tall, armored form of Quintus Gracchus filled the doorway. “As well as my wife.”

“I’m afraid—” The Adjunct handed Gracchus the remaining bracelet. “—at this point, she’s your
former
wife. According to this status light, she’s dead.”

“A computer error, I’m sure.” Gracchus slid the bracelet under his chest plate, then reached for Amaelia. “But we’ll have it looked into.”

She flinched away from his touch. “Leave me alone!”

“Yeah, hands off!” Kerickson stepped between them. “In fact, Q.G., I think you and I ought to have ourselves a little talk—you know, about Interfaces where there shouldn’t be any, and why the computer won’t release Amaelia from the Game—and her father’s murder.”

Gracchus’s hard gray eyes bored into his face. “You and I do have some unfinished business.” The strong features settled into grim lines. His eyes, flat and deadly as a snake’s, flicked to the Adjunct. “Leave us alone for a few minutes, Sixtus.”

Sixtus’s heavy face looked undecided. “Captain, are you sure?”

“Leave us!” Gracchus’s voice had granite beneath it.

Sixtus saluted, then motioned to the other two guards. “We’ll be right outside.”

A chill ran down Kerickson’s spine as he watched them go; what he had in mind required witnesses to be effective.

“Now, you were saying?” Drawing a dagger from the ornately tooled leather sheath at his waist, Gracchus turned it so that the light played along the finely honed edge. “Something about Interfaces and murder?”

“Don’t give me that innocent act, Gracchus. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Kerickson noticed the dagger had a wooden handle just like the one on the dagger that had been buried in Wilson’s heart. “Let’s start with that special room in your villa—you know, the one with the screens and—”

“And the Interface you were supposedly repairing.” Gracchus balanced the dagger on the ends of two fingers.

Kerickson met the flinty gaze. “Perhaps you could explain how you came to have an illegal Interface to the Game computer in your villa, or how all those extra points found their way into your account”

Gracchus flipped the dagger and caught it neatly by the handle. “None of that is any concern of yours, freedman.”

“And Micio’s murder, I suppose that’s none of my business either?”

“The Emperor’s murder?” Gracchus rose with a clink of armor. “By Jupiter, I don’t know anything about
that.
I was otherwise occupied that unfortunate morning—following the Emperor’s orders to rescue his daughter from the Slave Market.”

“Daughter?” Kerickson glanced aside at Amaelia.

“Oh . . .” She put a hand to her throat. The last vestiges of color fled from her cheeks. “He
was
with me when my father was killed—he was bringing me back from Delos. He couldn’t have been at the Baths.”

Kerickson felt as though someone had just shoved him over a cliff. He could have sworn that Quintus Gracchus had killed Micio! Everything else fit: the unofficial Interface, the illegal points funneled into his account, his so-called marriage to Amaelia, and his subsequent play for Emperor. “Well, there’s still the matter of the Interface.” He tugged at his clammy tunic collar, which seemed to be shrinking. “And all those unearned points in your account. You’ve been cheating for months. You have no right to become Emperor.”

“Of course I’m cheating. It’s an authentic Roman practice, reputedly employed by the ancients themselves to great advantage.” Gracchus’s handsome olive-skinned face smiled, although the expression never reached his chill gray eyes. “And before you even think about having me disqualified, consider this: if I reveal your presence on the playing field to HabiTek, you’ll be out of this game in two seconds—and you’ll never find the real murderer.” He sheathed the dagger in one smooth motion. “That
is
why you’re still mucking around in here, is it not?”

Kerickson fought to keep the dismay off his face. If Gracchus hadn’t killed Micio and Wilson, then who in the name of all the gods he’d ever programmed had? “Who’s helping you with all this, Gracchus? You can’t be doing this point scam all on your own. What do you know about the Spear and Chicken?”

Gracchus glanced at him with heavy-lidded eyes, then took Amaelia’s arm so fast that Kerickson almost didn’t see him move. “I think it’s about time you went back to the Gladiatorial School and started playing your role, Kerickson.” Amaelia struggled, but Gracchus just tightened his hold. “Otherwise, I might find it necessary to augment the number of slaves used as lion fodder in tomorrow’s games in honor of the Saturnalia. Of course, the slaves are all supposed to be mechanicals and holos, but—” He nuzzled Amaelia’s ear. “—mistakes have been made, and once made, like Micio, it’s too late to do anything about them. Now, we wouldn’t want that to happen to you or the young lady here, would we?”

Kerickson’s hands clenched. “Leave her out of this!”

“Oh, but she has to play her part, too, just like the rest of us.” Gracchus’s voice was smooth as water. “Once I’m Emperor, she can leave the Game or play my Empress or do anything else she wants. But until then, she’s mine.”

Kerickson launched himself at the Praetorian, but without seeming to move Gracchus clouted him behind the ear with what felt like an iron club. Just as Kerickson’s face smacked the tiled floor, he heard Gracchus calling the other guards back.

“Dump this piece of freedman filth back at the Gladiatorial School where it belongs—and tell them to use him in the games tomorrow. And you tell Nerus Amazicus that if I ever see this little turd again, he’ll take his place in the arena!”

“Yes, Emperor!” Rough hands grabbed Kerickson by the shoulders. “Stand up, damn you!”

He tried to make his legs hold up his weight, but they seemed to be on vacation. How—How had Gracchus moved so fast? He couldn’t fit it together in his mind.

“Come on!” One of the guards looped Kerickson’s arm around his neck and dragged him through the door.

“Gaius!” Amaelia called after him. “Please, Quintus, don’t hurt him!”

“A noble sentiment, my dear,” he heard Gracchus reply. “But perhaps you would do better to worry about yourself. After tomorrow . . .”

The voices faded into unintelligible garble. Kerickson tried to look back over his shoulder, but his neck refused to hold up the weight of his aching head, and his eyes insisted on looking in opposite directions.

“Get in, turd-breath!” A slap rocked his face. “If you think I’m going to carry you all the way across the city, you’re crazy!”

The rectangular form of a litter lay on the street before him, with a sullen slave stationed at each corner. Blinking furiously, he managed to half fall, half sit in the unpadded conveyance.

“Ask for Nerus Amazicus and give him this note,” the guard said to one of the slaves as he reached down and jerked the curtains closed in Kerickson’s face. “And you tell him for me that if I see this piece of shit anywhere outside the arena, no one over there is getting his next fix, and that includes you four. Do I make myself clear?”

Whether they agreed or not, the litter rose and moved off at a brisk pace. Kerickson gripped the sides for support and tried to cudgel some sense out of his brain. What “fix” was the guard talking about, and why did they keep saying that he was going into the arena? Real players didn’t fight. HabiTek employed holo simulations or mechanicals for the re-creations of the Roman games. It was too dangerous to let humans go at each other with real weapons, even if they were trying to be careful.

His head spun and he closed his eyes. He had to get back to Amaelia. He had to find out who was behind Gracchus.

Taking a deep breath, he peeked through the curtains to see where they were at the moment. One of the slaves cursed and jerked them closed again.

Inside the litter the air shimmered, then resolved itself into a small brown owl. “THIS ISN’T VERY PRODUCTIVE, YOU KNOW.”

“Not now, Minerva.” Kerickson pinched the bridge of his nose and clamped his eyes shut. A black weariness dragged at his mind. “I’m trying to think.”

“YOU REALLY BOTCHED IT BACK THERE WITH GRACCHUS.”

“Oh, and I suppose you could have done better?”

The owl sniffed. “A TRUE HERO WOULD NOT HAVE ABANDONED HIS LADY.”

In spite of himself, his eyes flew open. “Look, I never said I was a hero!”

“IF YOU DON’T ACT NOW, AMAELIA WILL DIE.” The owl perched on his knee. “THE WHOLE CITY WILL BE LOST!”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to enlarge upon that.” A muscle twitched along Kerickson’s jaw. He drew his knees up and glared at the seedy-looking bird. “It’s all very well for you to go on all the time about saving the city, but you might at least tell me how!”

The owl’s gray eyes began to spark. ·’LISTEN. BUSTER, YOU BETTER GET IT TOGETHER AND MOVE YOUR ASS!”

“Shut up in there!” one of the litter bearers shouted. “Crassus said we had to deliver you, but he never said you had to be in one piece!”

THE OWL
rotated its head
to look over its shoulder, then disappeared with a pop. Kerickson ground his teeth. So much for divine inspiration. Nothing, but nothing, worked right around here anymore. They must have hired a band of idiots to take his place. If he were back at his old job in the Interface, it would take him days, maybe even weeks, to get everything running again the way it should.

Then he realized—that was it. He had to get into the Interface—the real one, not Gracchus’s, where there was sure to be an adequate guard now. All the answers had to be there. Since Game programs had been compromised through the illegal Interface, the computer must contain some record of how Gracchus had managed to funnel points into his own account. Who had helped him—and how? The answer to that probably contained the key to everything else.

The litter swayed around a corner. He peered out through the moving curtains and saw that they had entered the twisting, rubbish-clogged streets of the Subura, People, laughing and rowdy, jostled the litter, grabbing at the curtains and harassing the bearers, who swore and warned them off.

He waited until they were snarled in a particularly thick
knot of pedestrians, then burst through the curtains and hit the ground running, elbowing his way through the sea of togas and tunics, drawing angry protests and curses at every step.

The bearers shouted behind him as he ran. His head ached, and even though it was cold he broke out in feverish sweat. Finally he threw himself behind a statue of Venus and hunkered down as his pursuers pounded past.

“OH, COME ON, MR. HOTSTUFF, QUIT WASTING TIME,” a sulky voice said above his head “THERE ARE FOUR OF THEM AND ONLY ONE OF YOU, AND HAVE YOU LOOKED IN THE MIRROR LATELY?
THEY’RE
ALL BUILT LIKE SPACE-TRUCKS. SAVE EVERYONE A LOT OF TROUBLE. ADMIT THE INEVITABLE AND DIE.”

Breathing in chest-straining gasps, Kerickson looked up and saw Mercury’s pretty-boy face pouting down at him. Several scruffy-looking Subura merchants darted out of their ramshackle establishments, their stubble-covered jaws agape at the god’s silvery manifestation. A passing Legionary stopped to stare. “Is someone dead?”

“ANY SECOND NOW, UNLESS YOU’D CARE TO PUT THIS BASE-BORN LOUT OUT OF HIS MISERY YOURSELF.” Mercury floated serenely as he adjusted a pinfeather on the tiny white wing behind his left sandal heel. “FEEL FREE TO HAVE AT IT—HE’S ONLY GOT HALF A HIT POINT.”

Kerickson furtively stripped off his new Game bracelet and wedged it behind his back, between the statue’s shapely marble legs.

“LISTEN, BUCKO, THAT SORT OF SLICK NONSENSE WON’T SAVE YOU THIS TIME.” Mercury fluffed his perfect golden curls. “FACE UP TO IT LIKE A MAN; THOSE BOYS ARE GOING TO PUNCH YOUR TICKET FOR GOOD. WHY NOT JUST LIE DOWN IN THE STREET AND WAIT FOR THEM?”

“Why don’t you flit off somewhere and powder your nose?” Kerickson muttered as he heard running sandals clatter back in his direction. He ducked through the door of the nearest shop, evidently a laundry. A mound of grimy, wine-spattered tunics reached nearly to the ceiling. He burrowed beneath a cotton mountain that reeked of sweat, garlic, and onions as the sandals pelted by.

As soon as he was convinced they weren’t coming back, he clawed his way up to breathable air and slipped outside to get his bearings. The dome’s sun was dipping toward the western side of the city as players of all ranks streamed toward the races at the Circus. He headed into the middle-class residential area opposite the Subura, and after a few moments turned onto the Via Nova.

More than a few Legionaries were patrolling the streets, and he wondered what kind of bracelets
they
wore. How far did the Spear and Chicken’s influence spread, and exactly what was the nature of it, anyway? The people who played the Game not only paid a great deal of money, but put their outside lives on hold as well. How did Publius Barbus make them wear bracelets that siphoned off their points? Even if he used force, why didn’t they just throw the damn things away the first chance they got and then report him to the Game computer?

By the time he reached the small bakery that disguised the Management Gate, sweat plastered his tunic to his back and made the winter air seem even colder. Not only was the area thick with Legionaries, but he had seen several gangs of what he could only describe as armed thugs, openly carrying weapons of distinctly modern origin. What was going on?

He was standing in front of the locked shop door when he heard the scuff of hobnailed sandals on the street.

“Are you sure, Fabius?” a voice asked.

Kerickson ducked into the shadows behind an empty wine barrel, closing his eyes and trying to think himself not there. The sandals clattered by.

“I thought I saw him run down this street,” a second voice replied “Of course, it’s getting pretty dark. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks, but I don’t want to have to go back and tell the Emperor we couldn’t find him. You know what he’ll say.”

“He’s not Emperor yet.”

“Well, he will be by this time tomorrow. Once the Praetorians proclaim him, the Senate will have to give in.”

“Maybe.” The footsteps faded around the corner.

Kerickson brushed off his knees and examined the doorway. The monitor was embedded in the door frame above. “Give me class-two access,” he whispered up at it.

“Present Game bracelet for proper identification.”

“I’ve lost my bracelet.” He glanced over his shoulder. Did he hear more voices? “Give me emergency access.”

“Code?”

“Wilson, Giles Edward. Game status: Management.”

The monitor hesitated. “Your vocal print does not match that of Giles Edward Wilson.”

“I’ve—been injured,” Kerickson hissed at it. “I need medical attention. Give me access now!”

“Emergency drones have been activated. Please remain motionless until assistance has arrived”

Panic streaked up Kerickson’s spine. At best, he had three, maybe four minutes until the drones arrived and carted him off to
Medical, where he would no doubt be exposed and thrown out of the Game. And even if no one there recognized him, he still would be a long way from getting the computer access he needed.

Well, surely there was more than one way into this blasted thing. Knowing that protection of the Management Gate relied more on hiding it than actual physical measures, he dropped to his knees and searched the street for something, anything made of metal. He could see only vague outlines in the deepening darkness, and kept skinning his hands on the rough-edged cobblestones. His grasping fingers found a woman’s hairpin just as a trio of obviously drunken men turned onto the street, laughing and talking. Swearing under his breath, he scuttled back into the shadows. How long did he have before the emergency drones arrived?

As soon as the men passed, he popped out the monitor’s plas cover and probed the mechanism with the hairpin.

“Destruction of Game property will result in a fine of all accumulated points, in addition to monetary damages.”

Somewhere in the background he heard the monotonous whine of the emergency drones. He held his breath and thrust the hairpin deeper.

“You are likely to incur further physical injury,” the monitor said. “Please desist until the emergency drones—”

It shorted out in a burst of sparks. Kerickson fell heavily backward onto the cobblestones, feeling as though he’d just been bitten all over by a giant snake. Favoring his singed hand, he wrenched at the locked door. The whine sounded much closer now, perhaps just one street over. He threw his shoulder against the wood, grunting and digging his bare feet against the cobblestones. The gleaming drones rounded the corner, and red and blue lights danced crazy shadows over the closed shops.

The door gave and he tumbled inside.

* * *

Rose-scented steam swirled from the pool’s surface up to the ceiling and circled back lazily throughout the tiled room. Anchored by one hand to the side of the pool, Amaelia floated in the hot water, so tired it seemed she would never find the energy to move again.

Against her wishes, Gracchus had summoned a physician to check her for injuries. Even though he had worn the typical Game clothing of a Greek physician-slave, the man had used modern diagnostic equipment to pronounce her sound except for bruises and exhaustion. He had prescribed a bath and a good night’s sleep. She frowned; she would never get a decent night’s sleep again until she was out of the Game.

The slave girl, Flina, knelt at the pool’s edge. “Shall I wash your back, lady?”

She looked up into the slave’s dark, enigmatic face, still unsettled to find herself in her stepmother’s place, wearing her clothes and attended by her servants. “No, thank you, Flina.”

Quintus Gracchus strolled into the Palace baths. “Perhaps the Empress would prefer her husband to perform that service.” He gazed down at her.

Hastily, she hid herself against the pool’s edge. “Go away!”

He stared at her as casually as if she were one of the trees out in the gardens. “Surely you’re not embarrassed. After all, we are man and wife.”

“Not as far as I’m concerned!” She waved at the maidservant who had retreated back to the wall. “Flina, bring me my robe!”

Gracchus knelt to dip one hand into the water and let it trickle through his fingers. “It’s time you made a choice, my dear—either you are my wife and will stand beside me tomorrow as I ascend to Emperor, or you’re just garbage to be swept away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Reaching up, she took the green silk robe Flina handed to her and turned her back, thrusting her arms through the sleeves. “You don’t need me to become Emperor. It’s not hereditary.”

“No.” He stood up again as she wrestled with the wet sash. “But friends and connections in high places often make a difference—a lesson you would be wise to learn yourself.”

Feeling like a drowned puppy, Amaelia walked up the steps out of the pool. “Having family in high places has never done me a bit of good.” She accepted a thick white towel from Flina and wrapped her dripping hair.

“It might save your friend’s life.”

“Gaius?” Her head swung around. “Why? What have you done with him?”

“Nothing, so far.” Gracchus’s lips parted, revealing even white teeth that stood out in his tan face. “But you must realize that he is a gladiator, and there are games to be fought tomorrow.”

“But they aren’t—” She paled, thinking of the violent mock-spectacles to which her father had dragged her over the years. “—real—”

“Not formerly.” He picked up another towel and dabbed at her dripping cheek. “But I suppose you’ve noticed that times do change, even here in the Imperium. I thought it might be amusing to stage real fights between players this year. And there are plenty of men and women eager to attend.”

She clutched the towel around her shoulders, then headed for the door. He stepped into her path with a clink of armor. “We’ll have the emergency drones standing by, of course.”

Shivering, she stared down at her bare feet.

“If you play the loving consort tomorrow, then I will be proclaimed Emperor and will arrange for you to leave the Game.” He put his hand under her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible over the hollow slapping of water against the sides of the pool.

“And is it so very much I’m asking, just a few more minutes of playing a role you’ve been working toward for years?” He released her. “After all, that is supposed to be what every woman enrolled in this game wants—to become Empress. Who knows, you might even decide to remain with me.”

Goose bumps covered her arms as she stood there, dripping, unable to find an emotion in that classically Roman face of his that she could understand.

He laughed, and the sound echoed crazily in the tiled room. “See that you live up to your side of this bargain tomorrow, or I won’t feel obliged to live up to mine. Now—” He smacked her wet behind with the flat of his hand. “Go and dry off before you catch your death of cold.”

* * *

Kerickson fell through the bakery door, then pushed it shut and held his breath. Outside, the red and blue lights on the drones whirled around and around, strobe-lighting the interior of the shop through the window.

After several minutes of cruising up and down the street, the two units gave up. As the lights faded around the corner, he crawled past barrels of Egyptian flour, hoping no one would investigate the false alarm. It was late, though, and likely the replacement programmers were off duty. The Interface should be deserted, unless they were coping with an emergency—which was, of course, entirely possible, the way things were going these days.

Voices murmured somewhere down the hall. He kept his head down as he inched past the Costuming Department; the outfitters might be working late. Saturnalia was the most popular time of the year for enrollment, and new players had to be properly dressed in order to enter the Game. As he crawled by, however, it was dark and quiet. The noise came from up ahead in the Interface itself.

“This is the biggest goddamned mess I’ve ever seen!”

Kerickson pressed his back to the wall.