The Imperium Game (25 page)

The man hesitated, then disappeared into the shadows with her. Kerickson tossed the Legionary’s helmet aside and ran toward the steps.

“THAT’S IT, BOY. SHOW THESE LOSERS HOW IT’S DONE.” Mars winked a red eye at him, then flung the firebolt, “I DO SO LOVE AN OPTIMIST.”

Kerickson covered his head with his good arm and threw himself to the side, hitting the stone with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs and wring a searing burst of pain from his broken arm. Thunder cracked overhead, then rain drenched his body. He heard the sizzle and pop of the firebolt, then only the spatter of fat drops of rain on the pavement.

“FIRE AND WATER.” Neptune crossed his mottled-green arms. “WE SEEM TO HAVE REACHED AN IMPASSE.”

From the top of the temple Kerickson heard a long drawn-out scream that was abruptly cut off. He wavered back to his feet, cradling his throbbing arm.

“HURRY, MORTAL,” Neptune intoned morosely. “WE CAN HOLD THIS RED-EYED DOG OFF FOR ONLY A FEW MORE ROUNDS. YOU CAN WORSHIP US LATER.”

Kerickson stumbled to the steps, then started up, one weary foot at a time. Who was that up there with Amaelia—a robot, a priest of Mars, or perhaps the murderer? Halfway up he edged past Mars’s glowering figure. The god hefted another sizable firebolt, but giant raindrops pelted down again.

The god’s red eyes shot off angry sparks. “YOU AND I WILL SETTLE THIS LATER!”

“Right.” Kerickson shifted the dead weight of his throbbing arm. If he ever got back into the Interface, he would pull every byte that constituted Mars’s personality and flush it down the vac-chute

Three-quarters of the way up, he drew even with Quintus Gracchus and stared into the unseeing Roman face. No wonder Gracchus had played the Game so well. He reached out and touched the unflinching skin. Just like the rest of the Praetorians. Gracchus was a robot surrogate, no doubt programmed to out-Roman them all. The emergency override had stopped him, too. But then who was the man at the top?

The steps whirled under his bare feet and the pain from his arm came in waves, making it difficult to think. He sagged down to the cool marble and looked back at the Forum. Below, the four gods still faced off with Mars while the unmoving Praetorian Guards were just so many statues, hardly even remarkable in a place as crammed with monuments as this one was.

He drew a deep shuddering breath and stood up. Just a little farther and he could rest again. He focused on the steps beneath his feet, concentrating on one at a time until suddenly he found himself at the top.

Stumbling toward the great row of columns, he tried to see back in the shadowy recesses of the temple itself. “Amaelia?”

There was no answer, but he heard the slide of something being dragged. Then a sudden flurry of beating wings drew his attention to the right as several frightened doves took flight.

“Let her go!” he called into the long black shadows. “Catulus has gone for the police. You can’t get away.”

“That’s what you think.” A dimly seen figure darted from behind one of the massive white columns and fired at him. Inches from Kerickson’s bare foot, the gold-inlaid marble bubbled, then fused into melted slag.

His heart pounding, he leaped behind another column. A laser pistol, he thought in amazement. If that had hit, his foot would have been only a charred memory. He leaned his head against the pillar, trying to think around the sick feeling in his stomach.

Another shimmering red laser bolt split the shadows, glancing off the column’s surface only a hand’s breadth from his cheek. Hastily, he slid farther back around the column, the burnt-stone smell strong in his nostrils. “Look, let her go!” he called. “Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that.” The voice was cool, collected . . . and familiar.

Kerickson replayed it in his head, trying to remember. He was positive he had heard it from time to time, though not often . . . Someone enrolled in the Game? No, someone from below, from work. The image of gray suit-alls came back to him, and a disapproving face cast in granite . . . “Jeppers!”

“Don’t tell me you just figured that out.” J. P. Jeppers, his old boss, eased out of the shadows with Amaelia’s body braced across his chest as a shield.

Kerickson saw her hands move; she was still alive. A minor surge of relief rushed through him, but then his stomach tightened as he noted the livid purple bruise across her cheek and the gag stuffed in her mouth.

“Of course, you always were rather dense. Why else would I have hired you right out of school? I needed programmers who were too inept to catch on.” Jeppers’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “But none of that matters now. As far as the police are concerned, I’m just another victim of the drug-runners, like the players. No one will ever know my part in this.”

“Except me.” Kerickson slid back around the massive column as Jeppers approached, keeping it between them.

“But you don’t count.” Jeppers caressed Amaelia’s cheek with the pistol. Her glazed eyes widened until they seemed all whites. “You’re nothing but a disgruntled employee, a screw-up, fired for good cause and suspected of murder, who then sneaked back onto the playing field and created havoc. No one would believe you, even if you were alive—which, of course, you won’t be.”

“You killed Micio, then.” Sweat trickled down Kerickson’s face. “And Wilson.”

“Micio was a greedy bastard.” Jeppers changed direction abruptly. “And Wilson was too damn nosy.” Jeppers’s arm tightened, wringing a muffled protest from Amaelia. “You, of course, are neither—just stupid.”

“Not as stupid as letting Gracchus shut the entire Game down.” Kerickson edged along the chill marble, trying to think of something, anything, to use as a weapon, but he didn’t have so much as a sandal to throw to distract Jeppers. “Even if Catulus hadn’t called the police, they would have suspected something after a few days. Too many people live here, not to mention the day-trippers; they’ll be missed if they don’t interact with the outside.”

“That was a minor miscalculation on my part.” Jeppers darted to the left, forcing Kerickson farther back around the column. “But who could have foreseen the cancellation of Gracchus’s points? I programmed him to become Emperor at any cost, which unfortunately he did. But I have my share of the profits safely salted away in an outside bank. Once I take care of the two of you, I’ll live in luxury for the rest of my life and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

Kerickson heard the scuffle of heels dragged across the marble.

“Too bad Mars has to miss his own sacrifice!” Jeppers called from the shadows. “But I suppose it’s the thought that counts!” He heaved Amaelia’s struggling body onto the altar, then picked up a gleaming knife.

If he ran to her aid, Jeppers would fry him with the laser. And if he didn’t, Jeppers would kill Amaelia, who had heard everything, and then still come after him. He needed a diversion.

Minerva! His lips moved soundlessly, but then he stopped himself. All four gods were needed to hold off Mars. If he called anyone of them up here to help, then Mars would be free again.

Amaelia screamed; Jeppers must have removed her gag so that he could hear her terror. “Minerva!” Kerickson called softly, knowing the computer pickups would hear him. “I need your help!”

The owl appeared before him. “THIS HAD BETTER BE WORTH IT.”

Below, he heard Mars laugh, then the sizzle of a firebolt. “Manifest in Jeppers’s face.” The owl faded and he ran around the column toward the altar.

Jeppers looked up and smiled, raising the laser pistol. “So glad that you could—” His voice broke off as the owl appeared in his face, squawking and beating its wings. Even though the holographic image had no substance, he reacted to it reflexively and tried to beat it away from his eyes.

Kerickson threw himself at Jeppers and knocked him to the marble floor, then fought the pain of his broken arm, groping for the laser pistol even though he didn’t know how accurately he could fire it with his left hand.

When his fingers encountered the cold hard steel, he whirled, and aimed it at Jeppers—and stopped. The executive lay still and pale, a thin red rivulet seeping from his scalp across the white stone.

“LET’S GET ON WITH THE SACRIFICE!” Mars appeared at the altar, lighting the temple’s recesses with a brilliant red glow. He held a firebolt in one hand as he leaned over Amaelia’s bound body.

“Minerva!” Kerickson called.

“IT’S TOO LATE.” The owl landed on Jeppers’s nose. “THE STALEMATE IS BROKEN.”

“SUCH A PRETTY DISH.” Mars transformed the firebolt into a fiery sword. “PERHAPS WE SHOULD HAVE A BIT OF FUN BEFORE THE END.”

“Go to the Interface!” Kerickson pushed himself onto his feet. The temple floor seemed to ripple beneath him. “Find Catulus and tell him to shut Mars down!”

“I CANNOT MANIFEST WITHIN THE INTERFACE.”

Kerickson stumbled toward the altar. “He should have left some men in front of the bakery. Tell them to shut Mars down—now!”

The owl disappeared as he reached for Amaelia with his good arm, placing his body between her and the God of War. “Come on, Catulus!” he muttered between clenched teeth.

“WHY IN SUCH A HURRY, YOU FLEA-BITTEN MORSEL OF MORTALITY?” Mars’s face gleamed with a lurid red glow. “AFTER ALL, YOU ONLY GET TO DIE ONCE.” He raised his flaming sword and winked. “GOOD-BYE, SUCKER—”

Without warning, the electric braziers lighting the altar flickered out. So did the sun and the baleful red glow of Mars’s oversized body, leaving them in a smooth, black silence.

Kerickson sagged back against Amaelia’s prone body on the altar. Cold sweat drenched his body. Then he turned around, searched until he found her bound wrists, and began to work on the ropes with his good hand.

“What—What happened?” she asked.

“I told Catulus to turn Mars off, but—” He swore under his breath as he struggled one-handedly with the unseen knot. “—but he must not have known what to do. I guess he turned everything off just to be safe.” The ropes on her hands loosened and he moved down to her feet.

“It’s so—dark.” He felt her shiver. “And it’s getting cold again. What will we do?”

After a moment her feet were free. He hauled himself up onto the altar and put his left arm around her shoulder. She felt warm and soft against his aching body, and wonderfully human. “The police should be here before too long, but I guess until they come, we’ll just have to think of something.” He inhaled the lemony scent of her hair. “Got any ideas?”

THE INTERIOR
of the Interface was familiar and relaxing
.
Sitting in his old seat before the console, Kerickson closed his eyes and let the on-call HabiTek doctor work on his broken arm as the pain medication set him adrift in a golden haze.

The bone-knitting field snapped off.

“How’s the arm?” Detective Sergeant Arjack asked.

Dr. Simpkins examined the instrument’s readout. “It’ll hold—for the time being.” He put a hand on Kerickson’s good shoulder. “You’ll need additional treatment, though. Don’t put it off.”

Kerickson nodded, then looked around the circular room. “What about Jeppers?”

“I had word back from the hospital a few minutes ago.” The Arjack folded its massive arms. “Just a lacerated scalp and a minor concussion, nothing serious. He’ll be released in a day or two.”

Relief flooded through Kerickson. “He’ll be able to talk, then.”

“I think ‘sing like a canary’ is the proper expression.” The police robot blinked at him. “Are you ready to finish your statement now?”

Kerickson flexed his right arm. Somewhere in the distance he could feel a faint ache, like a nagging thought that wouldn’t go away, but he could think now and make sense—which was more than he had been able to do by the time the dome’s power had come back on and Amaelia had helped him down to the Interface.

“It was Jeppers all the time.” He rolled his sleeve back down over his newly mended ann. “He must have conspired with Micio
Metullus, the Game’s reigning Emperor, to use the Underworld as a hiding place for criminals and a staging area for drug-running.”

“So Jeppers wasn’t lying,” Amaelia said from the corner. “My father had a part in this, too.”

Kerickson nodded. “I think the whole scheme was originally Micio’s idea. Probably, Jeppers got wind of it, then demanded to be cut in. In return, he made things a lot easier—sabotaged certain programs likely to interfere, such as Minerva and Apollo, let Micio use Gate Four without supervision, allowed the criminals free run of the Underworld.”

His head sagged back against the cushioned headrest. “And I was so stupid! I never suspected for a minute. It was Wilson who realized something was really wrong. The day before Micio’s murder, he’d been down at the Gladiatorial School, investigating the sale of extra hit points. He must have seen something there—maybe dead players who were supposed to be in the Underworld, or formerly inept Gladiators who’d risen too far in the rankings, or even drugged-out addicts begging for their next fix!”

Amaelia slipped behind his chair and reached down to touch his face with cool, slim fingers. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But he enrolled me as a gladiator trainee!” Kerickson lurched to his feet. “I should have known that wasn’t a random choice and started looking there. Instead, I chased over the entire Imperium, when it was obvious that anyone selling hit points had to have an illicit input into the Game computer.”

The Arjack cocked its head in a very lifelike gesture. “So you think Giles Wilson was murdered by Jeppers, too.”

“He admitted it.” Kerickson mopped at the sweat on his face with his sleeve. “Wilson was getting too nosy. Jeppers couldn’t afford to have smart programmers around, ones that could put two and two together. He needed idiots—like me.”

“I don’t think an ‘idiot’ could have rescued me from Hades.” Amaelia sat down in Wilson’s old chair. “Or gotten that override that stopped Quintus Gracchus and the rest of his robot guards. In fact, I don’t think anyone else in the Game could have done what you did.”

The warmth in her voice penetrated through the fog of weariness that was dragging him down. He felt his cheeks go warm.

“Well, that’s a very interesting theory,” the Arjack broke in, “but we need some sort of proof. The memory banks of the Game computer now hold the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Galactica—with addendums. At the moment, it’s just going to be your word against his. Even with a truth-scan, we might not be able to get a conviction.”

Proof . . . Kerickson ran a hand back through his hair. Jeppers had made every effort to cover his tracks. And yet there had to be something, the back of his mind whispered to him—something that could be turned over to the police.

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbled. “I can’t think of a thing right now.”

The doctor shot the Arjack a pointed look. “He really should get some rest.”

“All right.” The Arjack nodded. “We’ll come back tomorrow, after we finish questioning the men we’ve already arrested. Maybe you’ll have something more for us by then.”

Kerickson sat down. “Thank—” He broke off as he felt something flexible and thin slide over his ribs. Reaching inside his tunic, he pulled out several plas sheets and stared at them numbly.

“What’s that?” Amaelia asked.

“The stats.” A slow smile spread across his face. “The diagnostics I ran on Gracchus’s Interface—the ones that first clued me in.”

The Arjack held out its hand and accepted the flimsy plas sheets. “Then we just may have what we need after all.”

* * *

“I feel silly,” Kerickson admitted over the clop of the horses’ hooves on the pavement of the Via Appia.

Amaelia smiled and leaned against him as the chariot turned to enter the Forum, where it seemed the entire Game had come out to see the triumph awarded to him by the Senate. “This is quite an honor. You might as well relax and enjoy it.”

“Remember, thou art only a mortal,” a voice intoned from behind him. “Remember, thou art—”

“And you!” Kerickson turned around and glared at the wrinkled old slave. “You might as well save that stuff for the real players.”

Amaelia put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s traditional,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear. “Don’t hurt Tithones’s feelings. He might never get the chance to do this again.”

The crowd cheered as the chariot approached the Temple of Jupiter, the traditional ending point for all triumphs. Kerickson gripped the reins tighter as the two black horses flattened their ears and jerked their heads, upset by all the noise. How had he ever let himself get talked into this? It was pointless. What he really needed to be doing was looking for another job.

Of course, he had been rather busy the last few days adjusting the parameters on all the god programs, resetting the weather back to midwinter, and rebooting all the memory banks that Jeppers had copied over. And then there had been the problem of what to do about Pluto and Demea.

When the police had finished investigating, they took Kerickson to see the highly illegal bio-Interface hidden within the Underworld. It contained only two bodies at the moment: Alline and a man named Delbert Wayne Fields, who had been playing Pluto.

“It’s permanent,” the Arjack had said after it opened the door into the tank room. “Fields must have paid Jeppers a fortune for this setup.”

Kerickson stared at the man beneath the first tank’s transparent cover—a short, middle-aged, balding man who had nothing in common with Pluto’s smoldering dark presence—then moved on to the second tank and gazed down at his ex-wife’s still, white face. “What do you mean, permanent?”

“Certain cerebral connections have been permanently severed. Their bodies’ autonomic functions are being maintained by the tanks’ systems and will cease to function if we remove them.”

“They’ll die.” Kerickson touched the frigid plas, feeling like a character in a grade-D holo.

“They cannot remain here unless HabiTek approves.” The Arjack shook its head. “This is their facility, and they’re not legally bound by Jeppers’s actions. He had no authority to authorize something like this.”

Afterward, without really understanding why, Kerickson had gone to the HabiTek board and asked for approval to leave the pair connected, promising to limit their actions much more severely than any of the other god programs. In a way, it was a unique punishment. They would go on in that sort of half-life until the natural death of their bodies, with no hope of reprieve, no chance to ever walk the real world again.

Still, he told himself as the chariot approached the foot of the temple, he supposed it was better than the alternative.

The noise level continued to rise; the horses rolled their white-rimmed eyes and tried to bolt as he hauled back on the reins to halt them at the bottom of the great white marble steps.

At the top, under the portico, Oppius Catulus raised his arms and signaled for quiet. Like an ocean wave throwing itself against the beach, the crowd’s noise crested, then receded. He waited another moment, his purple cloak billowing in the chill breeze, then nodded. “We have come here today to honor Gaius Clodius Lucinius, known in the outside as Arvid Gerald Kerickson. “

Two Praetorian Guards took a firm hold on the horses’ headstalls so that Kerickson and Amaelia could get out of the chariot. Tall and graceful, Amaelia swept up the gold-inlaid steps, every inch a princess. He followed behind, feeling like an imposter and a fool.

When he reached the top, Catulus shook his hand, then turned him around to stare out over the kaleidoscopic sea of expectant faces below. “Some of us have played less than a quarter, while others like myself have spent years perfecting our roles.” His voice rang out deep and clear in the crisp winter air. “The Game is more than important to us; it is our life.” A roar of agreement went up from the assembled slaves and freedmen, nobles and Legionaries and barbarians.

Catulus waited until the noise abated. “By risking your own life to find the murderer and expose the conspiracy, you have shown a dedication rare in this modern, self-absorbed age of ours.” The crowd roared again, the people raising their arms high into the air. He nodded and waved them quiet. “As reigning Emperor, I have been asked to make you an offer, Gaius Clodius Lucinius.”

Kerickson stared at his feet, acutely uncomfortable in the middle of so much attention focused solely on himself.

“HabiTek will pay you double Jeppers’s old salary if you will agree to stay on in the Interface and supervise the Game.”

Kerickson shook his head even as the crowd began to chant his name. He didn’t want to stay here, to be reminded daily of how he had failed—a failure that had cost Wilson his life and caused millions of credits in damages. It would take at least a year to set everything to rights again, perhaps longer.

The crowd noise dribbled away into a surprised mutter.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Catulus. “I appreciate the offer, but I really think it would be better for everyone concerned if I just moved on.”

“NOT FOR ME, MY HERO,” a vibrant female voice said from behind.

He whirled around and saw the air sparkle like light reflected from water, then solidify into the twice-life-size form of a dazzling young woman wearing the Aegis on her breast—the storm shield of her father, Jupiter. She smiled, then walked forward, her sheer white gown swirling around her body as she gazed down at him. Below, the crowd dropped to its knees as though it had a single mind.

At the top of the steps, Catulus and Amaelia knelt, too, bowing their heads. “Minerva, Goddess of Wise Counsel,” Amaelia murmured. “We are honored by your presence.”

“AND I BY YOURS, CHILD.” Minerva’s gray eyes glowed. “YOU HAVE SHOWED RARE COURAGE AND SENSE IN THE PAST DAYS.”

Kerickson looked around at the kneeling people. He felt stupid to be the only one still standing, but decided he would feel even dumber kneeling to a holo. “You—look much more yourself,” he said finally.

“THANKS TO YOU.” She smiled, and it seemed to him that her flawless face was both ancient and ageless. “IT IS YOU WHOM I HAVE TO THANK FOR MY CITY. ARE YOU SURE THAT YOU WILL NOT STAY? THERE IS STILL SO MUCH THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE.”

“Someone else will do it for you,” he said. “In fact, probably even better than I could. It’s time for me to go.”

“AND LEAVE A JOB UNDONE?” The corners of her mouth quirked up. “THAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE YOU.”

“Oh,” he said gloomily, “I think it’s just like me.”

“WELL—” Minerva held her palm out and a small gray mouse appeared in the middle of it. “I SUPPOSE THAT EVEN A GODDESS CAN BE MISTAKEN.”

Kerickson watched in stupefied horror as she opened her mouth and popped the writhing mouse in. “But—”

With her little finger, Minerva delicately tucked the whirling tail into her mouth.

A muscle twitched underneath Kerickson’s right eye. Since the restoration of order, he had worked for hours to reset Minerva’s parameters, but obviously they were still off—very off.

Minerva folded her perfect, white fingers. “IS THERE NO WAY WE CAN PERSUADE YOU TO STAY?”

Amaelia reached out and took his cold hand between her two warm ones. “We need you—Arvid. Why don’t you stay until everything’s back to normal? Then you can take your time finding a new job.”

Another shivering, dark-eyed mouse appeared in the middle of Minerva’s hand. He eyed it glumly; if the Goddess of Wisdom and Civilized Life was still dining on live rodents, it could be no one’s fault but his. Maybe he wasn’t very good at his job, but he ought to at least stick around until he’d set things right.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll stay until everything is running properly again.”