The Imperium Game (6 page)

The words washed over her like a cold shower. “What are you talking about?”

Holding up one hand, Quintus removed his glove, tugging each finger with precise, measured motions. “I regret to say that your illustrious father perished in a fire yesterday morning at the Public Baths. The whole Imperium is in mourning.”

“Perished, you mean—dead?” Amaelia sagged back against the cold hardness of a column. “My—father?”

Tucking the glove into his wide leather belt, he started on the other one. “Life, however, does go on, and we all must do our part. Another Emperor must be found so that the Game can continue.”

Her father was dead. She tried to make the words real, but it was like trying to pick water up in a sieve; they kept running out of her head.

“It has long been a tradition that the Praetorian Guard has a hand in selecting the new Emperor,” Gracchus continued, as though he were only discussing the dinner menu. “As current Captain of the Praetorian Guard, I cannot take this duty lightly. And you, my lady, have your own duty to the Game as well.” Reaching down, he grasped her wrist and jerked her against his bronze chest plate as though she weighed nothing.

“Duty?” Hot tears started down her face as she tried to twist out of his grip. “The Game? How can you talk about a stupid game where nothing is real, unless . . .” A sudden hope dawned in her mind. “Unless he’s only dead in the Game. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? He’s just dead in the Game?”

“No, Amaelia.” Gracchus shook his curly head. “Your father has passed beyond this world.”

“Then I don’t want to play anymore!”

“Ah, but now, lady,” Gracchus whispered, staring down into her eyes, “comes your greatest role of all—that of both Empress and my wife.”

* * *

Even the lowest rated of legal robots cost twice as much as Kerickson had in his savings account. Staring at the screen’s statistics in his meagerly furnished hotel room, he thought of the ramifications. He could try to borrow, of course, but who would want to lend a sizable sum to a down-and-out, already in debt, unemployed programmer under suspicion of murder?

His parents had entered an expensive Maui retirement community over three years before, and had liquidated all their assets to buy a beachside condo. He couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help, but then Alline’s face crept into his mind. Perhaps . . .

But she was the widow of the very man he’d been accused of killing. Alline—or Empress Demea, as she styled herself these days—was the last person, in or out of the Imperium, who would be inclined to help him.

Just as he reached for the release button to clear the screen, the incoming-call code sounded. His finger froze in midair while he tried to decide whether to answer or not. It might be the police again, and he’d already had more than enough of them for today.

The code buzzed again. Swearing under his breath, he jabbed ACCEPT, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

The image of a soft, round face formed. Myopic blue eyes blinked at him from under a receding tangle of brown hair—Wilson. “Arvid!” he gasped. “Thank God it’s you!” He glanced furtively over his shoulder, then leaned closer to the screen. “You’ve got to get back here right away! I think I’ve found the problem.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard.” Kerickson scowled. “I’m guilty of murder, and fired to boot.”

“Murder?” Wilson shook his head. “Don’t be dense, Arvid. Nobody believes you killed Micio, but if you don’t get back here right away, all hell’s going to break loose—and that will be your fault.”

“And exactly how do you figure that?”

“Because I found the glitch.” Mopping at a trickle of sweat, Wilson stared beseechingly into the screen. “And it’s not just Minerva, it’s all of them. They’re all involved, and right here before the Saturnalia, too. You’ve got to come back and give me a hand!”

“You’re forgetting, of course, that I couldn’t access so much as a rubbish collector in that place.” Kerickson shook his head. “Jeppers blanked my Game status.”

Wilson waved an impatient hand at him. “Oh, I’ve already taken care of that. You’re logged in now as Gaius Clodius Lucinius, a freedman student down at the Gladiatorial School.”

“A freedman—”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that rot.” Wilson started, then stood up. “Look, we can’t talk about this on an open channel. It’s close to ten now. Just get back here and meet me down in front of the school by midnight. I can’t handle this by myself.”

“It’s not my problem anymore,” Kerickson protested. “Tell Jeppers and the rest of HabiTek to sit up there and hold Minerva’s hand. I hope he—”

“Listen, you idiot, HabiTek is up to its knobby corporate knees in this whole mess!”

Intrigued, Kerickson stared at him. He’d never seen his former partner so upset. What could be going on back there in the Imperium? Could there possibly be a way to exonerate himself? Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to just go back and hear what Wilson had found. After all, he could always say no.

Something crashed just out of sight, and Wilson paled. “Look, just get here—midnight—you understand?” Then the screen went blank.

“This had better be good,” Kerickson said to the empty blue screen, then sighed. If he was going to make it by midnight, he had better hurry.

THE
knee-length tunic handed
to him by the yawning Costuming attendant was none too clean, not to mention that both it and the accompanying long gray cloak were full of moth holes. He shook the ratty garments out, then sighed. Unlike the Interface Gate, players’ gates allowed no one on the field without proper attire. He might as well get on with it.

Stepping into the changing booth, he stripped, then put on the musty-smelling outfit, thinking that while authenticity was one thing, filth was quite another. As he strapped on the worn belt with its plain wooden dagger, he resolved that if he ever did get back on staff, he would have Costuming’s collective head for this.

Leaving his outside clothes in an empty locker, he keyed it to his thumbprint, then presented his newly acquired Game bracelet to the monitor.

“Identity confirmed,” the computer said after scanning. “Gaius Clodius Lucinius. Game status: freedman, gladiator trainee.”

Kerickson tugged the musty cloak around his shoulders as the door slid aside. He stepped into the chilly night air and breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind him, locking out the police and the outside world and all his troubles—for the moment, anyway.

This particular gate was in the Southeast Quadrant, located in the side of one of the seven hills of Rome and masked by several boulders. He gazed down on the playing field, taking in the odor of horses, damp earth, and stone, trying to be thankful that at least Wilson hadn’t been stupid enough to enroll him as a slave.

Beside the hill, the two buildings of the Gladiatorial School were dark and quiet at this hour. Since they were all in training, gladiators were supposed to retire early. He huddled into the worn cloak and threaded his way down through a maze of exceedingly realistic rocks, muffling curses every time he stubbed his toe.

The Coliseum also loomed ahead, adjacent to the school. Its massive black outline stood out against the simulated night sky, but he saw no sign of Wilson yet. Well, he was probably a few minutes early. Flapping his freezing arms, he crunched across the sandy soil to the far end of the empty arena, then paced back again.

Down in the nearest street, he saw several members of the Praetorian Guard returning from the Subura, one of the Game’s less reputable districts, their steps unsteady and their voices boisterously loud.

He edged back into the shadows, wishing for his watch; of course, few wore such innovations in here where authenticity counted above everything else, and sundials didn’t fit well on the wrist. The soldiers stumbled past and their exuberant voices faded.

Kerickson surprised himself by wishing that he were down there with them. His six-month term as a guard when he had first been hired by HabiTek had been fun in a lot of ways. He missed the camaraderie he had known then, and even the drilling, the working out, the sense of physical fitness.

But none of that had been real, he told himself. The Imperium was just a giant playpen for people who had too much money and free time, both of which were problems he’d never had to worry about.

He took a deep lungful of the bitingly cold air, then exhaled. His breath hung mistily in the air. His feet had gone numb in the scanty scandals without socks or hosiery. Dammit, where was Wilson? Gritting his teeth, he took another turn around the edge of the Coliseum, wishing for a coldtorch or even a proper Roman one.

“Kerickson?” a hesitant voice asked.

“Over here!”

“Where?” Wilson’s voice demanded.

Orienting himself to the approaching footsteps, Kerickson turned around and made out a faint shape coming toward him. “Will
you hurry up! I’m about to freeze my—”

“Patience, my boy, patience.” Glancing over his shoulder, Wilson panted up the hill. “Sorry I’m late, but for a few minutes there I thought I was being followed.”

“Followed?” Taking Wilson by the arm, Kerickson pulled him deeper into the blackness of the arena’s shadow. “Who would be following you at this hour?”

“Probably no one. Everyone is restless since Micio died.” Wilson leaned back against the bricks. “You know how it is. Things won’t settle down until there’s a new Emperor.”

“Yeah, well, now that you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night, let’s quit wasting time. Just what did you think you found out?”

“Well, you know that little mix-up with Amaelia?” Wilson hesitated. “It was no accident. I searched Vesta’s temple and found a note sent to Amaelia Metullus signed by her father, telling her to meet him at the Public Baths. It was a setup.”

“So?” Kerickson tried to rub some feeling back into his arms. “That’s the whole point—everyone is trying to become Emperor. Micio was bound to have a whole stadiumful of political enemies.”

“Yes, but how many of them would be able to interfere with the god programs? It wasn’t a coincidence that Minerva was down on the very same day we had a fatal fire. Once I analyzed the stats, I found that her buffers were being randomized by a self-renewing program, guaranteed to keep her out of action until it was deleted.”

“But—” Kerickson looked around, then leaned in closer. “But no one has access to the Interface except you and me.”

“And HabiTek.” Wilson stared straight into his eyes. “It’s so obvious. Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

Nearby in the velvet-black darkness, a sandalled foot slipped in the sandy soil. The two men glanced sharply at each other, then pressed back against the coldness of the arena’s granite wall.

“We can’t be seen together,” Wilson whispered. “I’ll have to meet you again tomorrow night.”

Kerickson caught his arm. “Where?”

“I’ll let you know.” Wilson pulled out of his grasp, then hesitated. “Give me your dagger.”

Surprised, Kerickson started to unbuckle his belt and hand it over.

“No, just the dagger.” Wilson glanced down the darkened hill. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“No problem.” He drew the wooden-handled dagger from the short scabbard and passed it to Wilson. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, old son.” Wilson hefted the dagger. “I’ve programmed Mars to look after me.”

That wasn’t particularly reassuring. Kerickson watched his former coworker pick his way back down the hill, heading toward the center of the Imperium and the safety of the Interface.

Then he looked around, trying to decide what to do. It was hours before the school would open, and he didn’t want to attract attention. Finally, he headed into the graceful open arches of the Coliseum to find a likely spot to bed down. Tomorrow would be soon enough to present himself at the school as Gaius Clodius Lucinius, freedman and new student in the ancient arts of mayhem.

* * *

Lying there, all alone in that great big Imperial bed, Demea scrunched her eyes closed, reflecting what a very disagreeable thing light was so early in the morning. Why, it had to be no later than seven o’clock, and here the sun was, rising merrily as though everyone had to be up and get about their business, which she, of course, did not.

Frowning, she stretched her arms above her head. Perhaps she would petition Juno to keep the sun down until at least ten A.M. After all, what use was influence unless you wielded it? And one of the best points of living in this place was that here, unlike the dreary outside world, the gods sometimes answered your prayers.

A soft, hesitant whisper broke into her thoughts. “Mistress?”

“Go away!”

“Mistress, please!” Quick, light footsteps crossed the floor to the side of her bed. “He
says
he won’t go away without speaking to you. He says he’ll just have to take his business elsewhere if you don’t get up and speak to him right now.”

Demea opened her eyes just the slightest crack and winced. “I’ll sell you, I swear I will, Flina, if you don’t get out of here right this minute!”

“But mistress, it’s one of
them,
from the Spear and Chicken.” Flina’s fingers tugged insistently at the silk coverlet tucked around Demea’s body. “You
know.”

For a second she couldn’t think what the little wretch was getting at. “The Spear—and Chicken?” Then she remembered Micio talking about that place and some sort of special deal on the side he’d had with them. “Oh . . .” She pressed the heels of her hands against her aching eyes. “Yes, well, I suppose you had better show him in.”

“In
here,
mistress?”

Blinking against the horrid, yellow, glaring sunlight, she scowled at Flina’s smooth dark face. “Yes—or would you rather I entertain him in the Palace Baths?”

Tucking her hands behind her back, Flina dropped her dark-eyed gaze to the mosaic inset into the pink floor.

“Then go and get him.” She watched the young maid retreat. “Robot.” she whispered to herself. Flina had to be a robot. It would be positively illegal for a human to be so poised and graceful this early in the morning. She leaned her head back against the carved teak headboard and reflected that it was too bad the rules forbade physical punishment; she would just love to have the ungrateful wench beaten to see if welts would indeed appear on that firm young back.

Flina reappeared in the doorway, followed by a stocky, middle-aged man in a greasy green tunic. “Publius Barbus, mistress, of the Spear and Chicken,” Flina announced.

“Greetings, your ladyship.” The man’s broad face split into a craggy, gap-toothed smile. “Nice digs you got here.” He winked. “Not to mention a high sort of quality help.” As he spoke, his hand slipped down behind Flina’s backside and gave her a pinch.

Flina jerked slightly, but otherwise gave no indication of having noticed. Demea narrowed her eyes. “That will be all, Flina,” she said frostily.

“As you wish, mistress.” Flina’s crown of black braids bowed respectfully; then she backed out and closed the door behind her.

“Thought she’d never leave!” Striding forward, Barbus plopped down on the bed and stared expectantly at Demea.

Inwardly cursing Micio for dying and leaving her to deal with this low-life on her own, she pulled the pink coverlet up to her chin. “How may—I help you, Publius Barbus?”

“Just call me Harry, your Imperialness.” Looking thoughtful, he scratched at a wart on his impressively arched nose. “I don’t really go for them sissy Roman names, and anyway, it’s really more like how you and I can help each other.” He leaned closer, and she detected the delicate aroma of garlic and sour wine. “It’s almost the Saturnalia, you know—only a few days to go now, and so much to do.”

“Yes, well . . .” She tried breathing through her mouth. “I’m sure you understand that Micio always handled these details. I’m rather at a . . . loss at the moment.”

“Heavens, don’t you go worrying your pretty little head about nothing, your Empressness.” Leaning in still closer, he patted her hand. “Just give old Harry here the word and things’ll go on just the same as always. You won’t have to lift one tiny pink finger.”

“That’s very kind of you—Harry,” she said, shuddering under his touch. “I’m gratified to know there are those upon whom I can count in this time of need.”

“’Course . . .” He laid a finger beside his beaky nose. “If I handle all the details on my own, I’ll have to take a bigger share of the profits to cover my expenses. That’s just good business. “

“How—big a share?” she asked, wishing that he would just go away and let her sleep.

“Oh, double should do the job.” He produced a rusty-looking dagger and began to pick his nails. “Unless something comes up.”

“I should think half again your old share would be more than generous.” Her hand clasped the sheet tighter. “And nothing had better come up!”

“It takes a powerful bit of money to keep mouths closed in a place like this, your royalness.” His face dropped into sorrowful folds. “And of course, his formerness, your late husband, he understood stuff like that. Had a real head for business, he did.”

“In fact, I’ve changed my mind.” Sliding onto the cold floor so that the bed was between them, Demea clasped the silk sheet to her breast and concentrated on looking her most dignified. “I will handle the details myself, just as my beloved Micio did. You will resume only your old duties, nothing more.”

“Unless you know where all the so-called bodies are buried, I wouldn’t be so hasty, your ladyness.” Publius’s thick eyebrows arched. “And as a betting man, I’d say you have no idea what I’m getting at, do you?”

“Bodies?” she said faintly.

“Himself knew everything about everyone, and as they say, information is always money in the right hands.” He winked, then stood. “I’ll just be on my way now. Don’t you worry one hair on that lovely head of yours. Things ought to run just as smooth as ever, maybe even more, now that old Harry’s got the reins.”

Feeling like a fool, she watched him swagger out the door. So that rat, Micio, had known things, had he—important things he hadn’t shared with her. Somehow she had to find his information stash, or this whole setup was going to slip right through her bejeweled fingers.

* * *

The cooing of doves woke Kerickson from wild dreams in which police robots mounted on fiery, snorting horses chased him down the long winding streets of the Imperium and into the frigid, racing waters of the Tiber River.