The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  A foot caught him in the kidney and flipped him over on his back, then stamped down on his chest and pinned him to the floor like a dying fish impaled on a spear. The smoke was swirling, growing thicker and thicker, he couldn’t breathe—had to get out. “Anything!” he gasped. “Your terms—anything you—” Coughing overtook him again, racking his lungs until he thought he would turn inside out.

  “A pity,” said the cool, metallic voice above him. “We might have done such lucrative business together.”

  * * *

  Dragging into the Interface, Kerickson glanced uneasily at his fellow programmer. Wilson looked at least ten years older than he had yesterday, maybe fifteen. “Have you thought of finding another line of work—maybe something with a bit less stress?”

  “Give up the Game?” Wilson ran a hand through his brown hair, a stunned look on his haggard face. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I’ve been up all night running diagnostics on Minerva.”

  There was a long silence interrupted only by a faint background hum from the monitors. “And?” Kerickson finally prompted.

  “And—it’s coming.” Wilson plopped into his chair.

  “So, let’s have a look at the old girl.” Kerickson punched in the call code for Minerva, and the center screen erupted in a blaze of light.

  “I AM MINERVA, GODDESS OF WISDOM, REASON, AND PURITY, PROTECTRESS OF CIVILIZED LIFE AND THE CITY.” The light coalesced into a tiny brown owl holding a writhing gray mouse in the talons of one foot.

  “So—” Kerickson tried to sound nonchalant. “How are the Saturnalia plans coming?”

  “I CAN’T BE BOTHERED WITH SUCH TRIVIALITIES NOW.” The owl tore off a bit of bloody mouse and swallowed.

  Shaking his head, Kerickson turned back to his partner.

  “I’ll work on it,” Wilson said under his breath, then punched Minerva off.

  “Great.” Kerickson closed his eyes. “Just great. Three more days until the Saturnalia and her exaltedness is eating mice. She’s a goddess; she’s not supposed to be eating rodents!”

  “So she’s a little confused.” Wilson punched in some figures and studied the screen. “I almost have it, unless you think that you could do better yourself.”

  “No, I haven’t got time.” Kerickson limbered his fingers up, then reached for the console. “I have to find some virgins pronto or old Vesta’s liable to burn down the city.”

  “You mean you still don’t have any?” Wilson glanced up.

  “Well, I offered triple family experience points, but everyone seems to have heard about Vesta’s strict standards, not to mention her nasty temper. No one is biting.” Kerickson punched the code for access to the Imperium newsnet. “I didn’t get one offer of a new girl over the age of three, and Vesta is only programmed for six and up.”

  “I could write her some new parameters.” Wilson reached for the keyboard. “It won’t take that long.”

  Kerickson grabbed Wilson’s hand. “Isn’t that what you were supposed to be doing last week?” A muscle jumped underneath Kerickson’s eye. “Just before she went—down?”

  “That had nothing to do with me.”

  “Yeah, right.” Placing Wilson’s hand on the arm of the chair, well away from the keyboard, he turned back to his own console. “You touch Vesta, bud, and you’re dead.”

  The ventilation kicked in with a soft whir, then he heard Wilson mumbling softly to himself. He frowned. He didn’t like to push old Wilson past his limits, but Vesta was too important to screw with right before the Saturnalia. With Minerva down and Juno so touchy, Vesta might be the only supernatural voice of sanity left in the Imperium for the next few days.

  Wilson turned to him. “Holy shit, I don’t believe it!”

  Kerickson sat up with a wrench. “Don’t believe what?”

  “Fire!’” Wilson’s voice was panicked as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “The Public Baths are burning!”

  * * *

  “I understand you have a rather special package of goods for sale,” the tall, military-looking man on the other side of Rufus Tiro’s door said.

  Rufus didn’t recognize this particular patrician face, and that was strange. He had made it his business to know most of the thirty patrician families by sight. “What . . . can I do for you—sir?”

  “I wish to arrange a private sale.”

  The man pushed into the atrium, and belatedly Rufus realized he should have asked this potentially valuable customer inside.

  “Although I am willing to pay top price for this particular piece of goods, I have no desire for the whole Imperium to know my business.”

  “Of course,” Rufus murmured, in what he hoped was a soothing manner, then quickly closed the door behind him. “How may I assist you?”

  The man threw back the hood of his cloak. His jaw was strong and square, his eyes gray and hard “I wish to buy the Vestal Virgin consigned to the Delos Market.”

  “Ah, yes, an exquisite young morsel with perfect skin and a disposition to match.” Rufus winked. “I have even thought of keeping her for myself, but I’m sure she would be much more appropriate in a higher household” Walking over to his desk, he pulled out a sheet of paper. “To whom shall I make out the bill of sale?”

  “Leave the buyer’s name blank.” The man’s full Roman lips twitched into a faint smile. “I’ll fill it out later myself. I want this to be a completely private sale.”

  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?”