The Imperium Game (4 page)

Rufus folded his hands. “But my transactions are always confidential.”

“It’s crucial to my plans to have no record, confidential or not. You cannot reveal what you don’t know.” The man passed him a heavy bag. “I imagine this will soothe any qualms you might have in the matter.”

Rufus hefted the bag, then peeked inside. His eyes went wide at the sight of so many Imperium gold pieces. “This is quite—generous!”

“Yes, quite.” The man reached for the bill of sale. “Now, my goods?”

“Right away, sir!” Stuffing the gold into his tunic, Rufus scuttled to the door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

It could not be, and yet it was. The Public Baths were burning with a vengeance. Kerickson stood before the proud arches, watching the thick oily smoke pour out as coughing men, many of them naked, stumbled out, helped in some cases by robot surrogates unaffected by the fire.

“Vesta?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Was all this his fault because he had been unable to supply a new Vestal Virgin? No. He tried to summon calmness. It couldn’t be. It was true that the gods were programmed to behave as the ancient Romans had believed they did, but it was outside their parameters to actually cause damage in the city.

Ahead of him, Wilson was running up and down the marble steps, his thinning hair falling in his eyes, his round face stricken. With a start, Kerickson realized Wilson was still dressed in modern clothes—as he was himself. In the shock of discovering the fire, they had both forgotten to change. He glanced down at the denim jump-alls that he was wearing; in the six years he had worked here, he had never once set foot on the playing field out of costume. It was a jarring feeling.

Activated by the alarm, spherelike fire drones zoomed up the street on their antigravs, carrying loads of fire-fighting foam. They streamed into the Baths as the last few men stumbled out and collapsed to the marble steps, coughing uncontrollably. Leaving the earlier casualties, who seemed to be doing much better, several emergency drones flew to their sides and administered doses of oxygen-enhancing drugs as they applied oxygen masks to the victims.

A trickle of sweat rolled down Kerickson’s face. He blotted it with his sleeve. Built to the strictest of specifications, HabiTek had never experienced even the smallest of fires since it had first opened over twenty years ago. Scenarios had come and gone, entire wars had been played out, and yet not a single player had ever suffered more than the occasional gash or broken limb.

He walked over to the smoke-blackened men, checking each as he passed, praying that no one was seriously injured. He would never forgive himself if this fire was a result of Vesta’s anger.

Gradually the smoke lessened until it was just a faint smudge of gray against the sky. The victims drifted away, back to their villas or apartments in the insulas, according to their roles. Only three had to be flown to Medical for further treatment, and the word was that they would most likely be released by the end of the day.

When the fire drones exited the Baths, hovering only a few feet above the ground, Kerickson started up the steps, anxious to see the extent of the damage for himself. The lead drone suddenly changed course to block his way. “Admittance to this structure is not currently permitted.”

Impatiently, he presented his Game bracelet to its monitor. “Override code thirteen.”

“Kerickson, Arvid G. Game status: Management,” it stated in a flat monotone. “Override denied. Regardless of clearance, all personnel must stay out of this building.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He stepped aside to go around it. “I have to assess the damage so it can be repaired as soon as possible. This structure is crucial to current Game scenarios.”

The drone used its antigravs again to block his path. “No one may enter until the police arrive.”

“The police?” He stared at the ball-shaped drone. “Why should we call the police?”

“Because there’s been a death, sir,” said a cheerful voice from behind his back. “New York regulations dictate that the police must investigate all instances of unattended human death, natural and otherwise.”

Whirling around, Kerickson looked down at a stocky, rumpled man standing beside a gleaming four-armed robot. “But they were all fine,” he said lamely. “No one was even unconscious.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, sir.” Removing his weathered brown hat, the shorter man stuffed it in his pocket. “The drones report one casualty, which may not be removed or tampered with until the police make a full investigation.” He thrust out his right hand. “Detective Sergeant Arjack.”

Kerickson stared at the hand, trying to cope with the idea of a real death. “There must be some mistake,” he said slowly. “This is a game habitat. People come here to have fun, not to die.”

Taking his hand, Arjack shook it. “One would think so.” Abruptly, he released Kerickson and motioned to the gleaming robot. “This is my assistant, Officer PD-92-844-M, and, I might add, an exceptionally fine model.”

The durallinium-and-plas robot moved in closer with its antigravs, and Kerickson took an involuntary step back. The robot clicked the metal digits of its top right hand smartly in salute. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” it said in a monotone.

“Yeah, right.” Kerickson shuddered, thinking that he much preferred the more lifelike robots used by HabiTek, then turned back to Arjack. “Who—died?”

Arjack shook his head. “That’s just what we are going to determine. “

Kerickson put a hand on his arm. “I want to come, too. After all, I am in charge here.”

Arjack glanced at his robot partner, then nodded. “Very well, sir, but you must remember not to touch anything, so as not to disturb forensic evidence.”

Following them up the broad steps, Kerickson tried to think who might still be in the Baths. Perhaps no one, he told himself as they entered the outer lobby. Perhaps they were mistaken and the so-called casualty was only a robot surrogate disabled by the smoke and heat. Yes, it was probably all a big mistake.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty building as they entered the warm-bath chamber and looked around. Still hazy with smoke, both room and pool were deserted, the water lapping against the tile. Dabbing at his smarting eyes, Kerickson breathed a sigh of relief and followed Arjack into the hot-bath room. Stopping on the far side beside a pile of wet towels, the police robot began to scan the floor with its red sensors.

“I think your partner has blown a fuse.” Kerickson crossed his arms. “There’s no one in here, either.”

“Except for the corpse,” Arjack replied cheerfully.

Then Kerickson looked closer and saw a smoke-smudged foot poking out from under the thick white towels, and from the other end, a strand of red hair. His legs went wobbly and he sat down on the nearest bench by the wall with a solid thump. “Who . . . ?”

The tall robot focused its red sensor eyes on the corpse’s arm. “According to his Game bracelet, Micio Julius Metullus, current Emperor of the Imperium.”

EVEN
though Kerickson had been running
the diagnostics on Vesta half the night, he had yet to find anything wrong. He sat back in his chair and bowed his head, refusing to look at the screenful of figures that insisted the Vesta program was running normally. Surely, with all the most modern of safety precautions built into the Imperium, the Public Baths could not have just burned
themselves.

“IS THERE SOMETHING THAT YOU WANT, MORTAL DOG, OR ARE YOU JUST BEING NOSY?”

Glancing up, he saw Vesta’s flame-wreathed face on the blue middle screen and sighed. She must have realized he was checking her out.

“AND WHERE ARE MY VIRGINS? DO YOU REALIZE THE SACRED FLAMES HAVE NOT BEEN REKINDLED?”

“Really?” He checked his watch—three o’clock in the morning—then rubbed his eyes, wishing that he had never heard of this place. “Seemed to me that the sacred flames were doing just fine—down at the Public Baths.”

“FOOL.” Vesta threw back her head, making the crackling flame-hair stream out behind her. “THOSE WERE NOT MINE. EVEN THE SMALLEST OF BABES KNOWS THAT FLAMES ARE NOT SACRED UNLESS THEY ARE IN THE HEARTH.”

“Then why did you burn the Baths?” Standing up, he paced the office wearily. “Did you know that you offed Micio in the process? I mean, he wasn’t a very good Emperor, but he didn’t deserve to die just because of what Amaelia did.”

“I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT LITTLE MISHAP.” Vesta’s divine nose rose into the air. “THOUGH PERHAPS IT WAS THE HANDIWORK OF SOME PIOUS DEVOTEE OF MY CULT.”

“This is going to ruin the Imperium!” He threw himself back into his chair. No one was going to play in a Game where the gods actually killed people. HabiTek would have to shut the whole place down and completely overhaul the god programs—and probably without him. Someone was going to have to take the rap for this, and he could just guess who that would be. No doubt he should just go ahead and clean out his locker.

“IF YOU WANT SOMEONE TO BLAME,” she said primly, “BLAME YOURSELF. IT HAS LONG BEEN PROPHESIED THAT THE SAFETY OF THE CITY DEPENDS UPON THE SACRED FLAMES.”

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, then punched her off.

“Busy hands make happy hands, I guess,” a voice said from behind him.

Whirling around, Kerickson saw the rumpled form of Detective Sergeant Arjack with his gleaming robot sidekick.

“That was, I assume, the god program known as Vesta?” Arjack asked.

Kerickson stood up, then ran a hand back through his hair. A wave of weariness washed through him; he was too damned tired to deal with this. “What if it was?”

“That particular program may have been responsible for the fire after all.” The detective looked around the room, then settled in Wilson’s chair before the Interface console. “The fire appears to have been caused by a massive surge in the electrical wiring that could have been triggered by a computer personality.”

“A surge?” Kerickson’s heart skipped a beat. “Then you think it was deliberate?”

“It was arson.” Arjack looked at him expectantly. “Would you care to make a statement here, or shall we go, as we say in the business, downtown?”

“Downtown?” Kerickson checked his watch again. “You’ve got to be kidding. It’s three in the morning. I should be in bed right now. Don’t you guys ever sleep?”

“Sleep?” The detective’s face assumed a puzzled look. “No, is there some reason that we should?”

“Most people—do.”

“Of course.” Arjack smiled unpleasantly. “But I’m not a person. It’s a well-publicized fact that none of the police are human anymore. It’s a messy, dangerous, unpopular job, and sensible people just don’t want to do it these days.”

“Oh.” Kerickson sat down in his own chair. “I’ve been working here in the Game Interface for six years, and since my wife and I split up, I’ve worked extra shifts. I don’t keep up with outside news much.”

“Your ex-wife, yes.” Arjack nodded. “That would be Alline Bolton Kerickson, now playing Her Imperial Highness the Empress Demea, spouse of the murdered man, Micio Julius Metullus, known outside of the Imperium as Alan Jayson Wexsted.” The detective folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. “And now, can you tell us exactly why you were here alone in the Interface in the middle of the night, editing the one god personality most likely to have caused the fire?”

Kerickson sighed. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

Alline turned to him, magnificent in her full-dress costume of an aristocratic Roman matron. “I want to live in the Game like everyone else here! I want a permanent role!”

“But we can’t afford it.” Kerickson massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the weariness from the all-night session he’d just worked in the Interface. “To begin with, you’d have to quit your outside job and start at the bottom here. We don’t have the kind of money it would take to buy you into the aristocracy. I doubt we could afford anything higher than a freed slave. “

“Slave?” Arms lifted gracefully above her head, Allie rotated before him, showing off every curve. “Is this the body of a slave?”

“Many slaves were very beautiful.” He swallowed hard.

“Never mind.” With a flash of her ocean-blue eyes, Allie snatched up her authentic woolen cloak from the sofa. “If you won’t enroll me in the Game as the kind of lady that I deserve to be, I’m sure that I can find someone who will!”

“No, wait—”

“No!”

“Wake up, Kerickson.”

“No, Allie, please!” he mumbled, fighting the hand on his shoulder. “I—I’ll see what I can do!”

“It’s too late for that, Kerickson.”

Opening his eyes, he stared into the hard gray eyes of his HabiTek superior, J. P. . . . something or other. “Mister uh . . .” He cudgeled his brain for the name. “Mister . . . Jeppers!” Glancing around, he found himself still sitting before the Interface console, the center of attention of a half circle of men dressed in sober, dark suit-alls. “Sir?”

“Get ahold of yourself, man.” Jeppers adjusted his tie. “The board wants a full report on this fire incident, and they want it now.”

“The fire?” Kerickson pushed himself up, then winced as his head cried out for more sleep. “It was a tragedy, a terrible tragedy.”

“Quite.” Jeppers locked his hands behind his back and looked Kerickson over like a side of beef. “Never in the history of HabiTek have we ever had anything so mundane as a fire.”

“Over twenty years without a serious accident is an enviable record.” Kerickson ran a hand over his hair and was dismayed to feel it sticking straight up. Why hadn’t he gone back to his apartment after the police left, instead of falling asleep in his chair? “But no system is perfect.”

“Perfect!” Jeppers glared. “We’re hardly talking perfection here. A valuable building was damaged and a man
died,
a man who figured prominently in current Game scenarios, all because you couldn’t keep the Game properly staffed.” He closed in until the capillaries in his eyes stood out like red rivers. “A man, I might add, who happened to be married to your ex-wife!”

“That’s just a coincidence!” Kerickson backed up until he bumped into the console. “I liked Micio—sort of.”

“Of course you did.” Jeppers’s face had all the warmth of a marble statue. “Come, man, surely you realize how this looks.”

Or at least, Kerickson thought, gazing around at the hostile circle of HabiTek board members, he could see how it looked to them.

“As of this minute, you’re on suspension without pay until the police investigation is finished.” Jeppers smoothed his expensive real-wool suit-alls. “Your Game clearance is canceled. You have five minutes to collect your possessions before we escort you off the premises.” The row of silent men nodded in unison, as though they had one body between them and Jeppers was their voice. “And, Kerickson, I would get myself a good lawyer if I were you—one of those recently reformatted, totally updated models that really knows its stuff. Because, son, you’re going to need it.”

* * *

“A terrible tragedy, my dear, simply terrible!” Fulvia Antonius’s double chin quivered. “I don’t know how you’re bearing up.”

“It is difficult.” Dabbing at a nonexistent tear in the corner of her eye, Demea gazed pensively out into the winter-bare garden as the wind chased dry leaves around the base of the fountain. “I did apply for a truly authentic Roman funeral, pyre and all, the first ever conducted here in the Imperium, but those horrid police confiscated the body and probably won’t release it until well after the Saturnalia.”

“Shocking.” Fulvia sniffed from the depths of the overstuffed divan, then smoothed her black-dyed curls back into place. “Demea, darling, you don’t mean to go on playing, do you, without Micio?”

“Well . . .” Fingering a straying lock of her own black hair, Demea reflected that she, thank the gods, was still young enough not to have to resort to dyes. “Sad as it is, life does go on. I’m sure that he wouldn’t want me to give up my place here, not after we both worked so hard.”

“That’s so brave, and so very like you, dear Demea.” Fulvia’s crafty little eyes glittered in the plump sea of her face. “Just what sort of chance do you think my own sweet Gnaeus has to succeed Micio?”

“Fulvia!” She raised up on one elbow to stare across at the other woman. “How can you speak of such things so soon—so soon after—” Dropping down, she turned onto her back and stared up at the chariot races carved into the column beside her couch. “And anyway, I have no idea who will succeed.” Artfully, she arranged one arm above her head. “You would do better to ask that overpaid wretch, Quintus Gracchus.”

Fulvia colored. “The Captain of the Praetorian Guard?” She giggled, setting a good portion of her anatomy into motion. “But, my dear, he’s so plebian, so completely lower class. Why, Gnaeus would have my head if I were simply seen looking at him.”

Demea smiled a tight-lipped smile. Fulvia was such a goose, she might actually fare better in the Game without her head.

After a moment Fulvia sighed. “Do you have any more of those delicious sugared figs? I’m afraid I was so grief-stricken at the news of dear Micio’s death that I forgot to eat breakfast. I’m simply ravenous.”

Turning her head, Demea looked for her maidservant, Flina, but the little ingrate was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, she clapped her hands.

As if by magic, Flina glided out of the shadowy interior of the villa, her dark face attentive. “Lady?”

“Bring us some sugared figs at once, and . . .” She thought for a moment. She had eaten little breakfast herself, what with her need to plan after this unfortunate and unexpected turn of events, but she probably ought to force herself to choke down something. “And we’ll have a dozen or so of those honey-coated sausages grilled on the brazier, as well as a plate of olives, some fresh-baked rolls, egg-and-cheese dumplings, cherry tarts, and . . . a bottle of wine.”

“Red or white, mistress?”

Sitting up, Demea stared into the dark depths of Flina’s Nubian eyes, searching for some hint of insubordination, but there was nothing except a sense of endless patience. “Don’t be ridiculous, Flina!” She picked a piece of imaginary lint off her cream-colored stola. “We’ll have both, of course.”

“Yes, mistress.” Flina started to go, then turned back to her with a soft swish of her simple white gown. “But—”

“But what?” Demea sat up, glaring at her.

“Shall I serve it before or after your interview?”

“Interview?” Putting a hand to her hair, Demea stood up hastily. “With whom?”

“Quintus Gracchus, lady, Captain of the Praetorian Guard.”

* * *

The furnishings weren’t his, of course. In fact, very little in the apartment belonged to him—just the specialized Game apparel that couldn’t be formulated by a Clothing-All, and what personal mementos Alline hadn’t bothered to take with her when she’d left him for Micio and the Game.

Kerickson stared around the sterile HabiTek apartment, wondering where the years had gone. It seemed that only a few days ago he had been a young technician straight out of training school, eager to start here in the Imperium on an exciting new job. Now his wife was gone and his job had vanished and it seemed he had lost himself somewhere along the way.

Jeppers’s voice intruded upon his thoughts. “Is that it?”

“Uh, yes.” He picked up the handle of his battered suitcase, a relic of his student days.

“Then get out and stay out until—and unless—the police absolve you in Micio’s death.” Jeppers pointed at the door. “And personally, I think you’re guilty as they come.”

Kerickson stopped, staring at his superior’s smug face. “What makes you so sure?”

“You had motive, means, and opportunity, as they say in the tri-dees.” Jeppers stared down his nose at him. “A so-called open and shut case.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with it!” Kerickson felt a surge of anger. “I was only trying to do my job!”

“Then you had better prove it, my boy, because I have a strong hunch the police see it the same way I do.”

Biting back a reply, Kerickson hugged the old suitcase to his chest and pushed past the watching board members, walking slowly down the familiar corridors until he reached the outside lock. There he shifted the case to his other hand and presented his Game bracelet to the monitor.