Did she detect a glimmer of interest in those steely gray eyes? Quickly calculating his possible accumulation of points, she wondered if, with the addition of her own points, he might have enough to ascend to the Palace in Micio’s place.
Then warmth rushed through her cheeks, spreading rapidly downward. What could she be thinking of? His role and Game background were so completely plebian and—her gaze strayed to the tanned, muscular legs standing there before her, solid as tree trunks. Well, stranger things had happened in the Imperium than the union of aristocrat and plebe.
Selecting a fat, sizzling sausage, she wrapped it in a fresh slice of bread. “Get to the point, Gracchus.”
“I came to report on the Lady Amaelia.”
Hearing that name so unexpectedly, she bit down too hard on the hot sausage and burned her tongue. Sputtering, she seized a glass of red wine and downed it in one gulp. “What—What about her?”
“Well, as you must know, the Emperor sent me to Delos to buy her in his name and return her to the Palace, but when I arrived, she had already been sold to an anonymous private party.” He shifted his weight, catching the sun on his bronze muscle plate and reflecting it into her eyes. “Although I have made efforts to trace the sale, I have so far been unsuccessful.”
“How tragic.” Laying aside the sausage, she selected a ripe black olive and bit it delicately in two. “I was so looking forward to sharing Micio’s estate with her.”
“I’ve come for your orders, lady.” He braced his massive shoulders. “Tell me your will in this matter, that I may direct my efforts.”
Demea tapped a manicured finger against her chin. Yes, in his own fashion, he was really quite handsome, much more pleasing to the eye—and certain other senses—than her late husband. And although he was currently too plebian to become Emperor . . .
She rolled an olive between her finger and thumb. There were no rules against having lovers; in fact, the ancient Romans had felt quite to the contrary, and it wasn’t as though she was even married anymore. “Your efforts have already been quite exemplary, Quintus Gracchus.” Tossing the flattened olive aside, she selected a crisp fried cherry tart and bit off one corner, dabbing at the juicy filling with her fingers. “I will oversee the rest of the investigation myself, although I might require your personal assistance from time to time.”
With a clank of armor, Gracchus sank to one knee and bowed his head, so close that Demea had to clasp her fingers together to keep them from wandering through those sinuous, dark curls.
“Anytime, day or night.” He gazed up, heart-stoppingly direct, into her eyes. “My lady has only to call.”
* * *
Kerickson gave up and entered the police airhopper. The robot heaved itself in behind and ignored him. Sitting by a window, he watched as they passed above areas of New York City that he had either forgotten or never seen. It was amazing how much could change in six years. A large patch of wilderness appeared below, and he saw an elephant wandering beside a small muddy lake. An elephant in the middle of New York. When had he stopped paying attention to the rest of the world? He pressed his face against the cool window plas.
All too soon, though, the ride was almost over. Just ahead he saw the massive downtown police station, rising up against the surrounding buildings like a gleaming gray windowless cube. The sheer size of it reminded him that he had been living in the diminished perspective of the Imperium for so long that he had forgotten how really big the outside was.
With a sigh, he held on to the utilitarian plas-covered seat in front of him as the airhopper made a rapid descent to the roof landing pad, then landed with a teeth-rattling thump. He rose and followed the morosely silent robot out into the winter sunshine, vainly pulling the collar of his too-thin shirt around his neck. I want to call a lawyer,” he said to its shiny black posterior. “That’s my right, isn’t it?”
“If you desire counsel, it is permitted,” it said without slowing. “We find, however, that most innocent humans do not feel the need.”
“But they always call a lawyer in the tri-dees.” Hurrying, he caught up and stared up into its red sensor eyes. “It’s only the stupid ones who don’t.”
“So you correlate manipulation of the law with intelligence.” The robot stopped in front of the gravity well that led down to the lower floors. “An unusual juxtaposition of concepts in this day and age.”
Kerickson stared past the robot’s body into the gravity well’s hazy green glow. Such modern devices hadn’t been allowed in the Game, and he hadn’t used one for longer than he could remember. The HabiTek board hadn’t even permitted anything but an old-fashioned elevator to run between levels down in Technical Services, while the most advanced such antigravity device actually allowed on the playing field had been the ancient, but still functional, concept of stairs.
Closing his eyes, he stepped into the emptiness of the shaft and felt the gravity field close around him. With a slight clank, the robot followed, floating just above his head as the two of them slowly descended. Kerickson sighed. It wasn’t really so bad. He was just going to have to get used to such things again.
“Exit on the first floor,” the robot said, then remained silent for the rest of the descent.
The first floor was staffed solely by pleasant-looking clerical models all dressed in the exact same cut of blue suit-alls. As a single unit they all looked up and tracked him with their eyes as he followed the police robot across the wide open space. The back of his neck began to itch.
“Well, well, if it’s not our boy, Kerickson,” said a booming voice from behind a corner desk. “Do you want to confess right away, or shall we waste a few pleasant moments trying to deceive one another?”
Kerickson recognized the bulbous nose of Detective Sergeant Arjack. “Confess to what?” he asked warily as the robot pointed to a utilitarian chair.
“Deception it is, then.” Arjack whipped out a second chair, turned it backward, and straddled it, gazing expectantly at him. Kerickson stared back.
“Now . . .” The Arjack nodded its head encouragingly. “Surely you know how this goes—first you tell me that you didn’t kill him, and then—”
“Didn’t kill who?” Kerickson interrupted.
“Whom—Alan Jayson Wexsted, also known as the Emperor, Micio Metullus—and then I say I don’t believe you, and we go on like that.” It bared large teeth in a humorless smile. “Useless, of course, like most human rituals, but I’m programmed to perform it whenever appropriate.”
“Oh.” Kerickson gazed down at the scuffed toes of his boots for a moment “But I didn’t kill him, although I do admit that his death might possibly have been my fault, because I couldn’t obtain any more Vestal Virgins on such short notice.”
“Vestal Virgins . . .” The Arjack shook its massive head. “I have to admit that’s a qualification of the term ‘virgin’ not currently in my data bank.”
“Virgins needed to tend the sacred fire in the Temple of Vesta.” Kerickson glanced around the room, then lowered his voice. “You know, young ladies who have never—” He winced. “You know.”
The Arjack grunted. “Human procreation—such an endlessly boring subject. Are we done trying to deceive each other yet?”
“I didn’t kill Micio Metullus.”
“And I’m not a robot.” It smiled another chilling smile. “Very well, Mr. Kerickson, you may go. We have enough physical readings on you now to make a fair assessment of how much of the truth you’re telling us. Just don’t leave town.”
“Go?” Kerickson stood up and felt the room tilt sideways. How long had it been since he’d slept or had anything to eat? “What about a lawyer?”
“Oh, get one, by all means.” Standing up. the robot turned away. “Waste your time and money. None of that is of the slightest interest to us.”
Time and money . . . Kerickson turned that over in his mind as
the robot’s solid-looking back lumbered away from him. He had very little money put aside. Alline had always had such expensive—and demanding—tastes, even before she’d talked him into buying her into the Game. He’d taken out a loan to pay her enrollment, a loan that he hadn’t finished repaying to this day. Just how much money did a lawyer cost, anyway?
He straightened the rumpled collar of his shirt-all, then picked up his suitcase. He wasn’t going to find any answers standing around the police station with his mouth hanging open. He’d better arrange for some sort of room for the night and start calling lawyers.
* * *
Amaelia was dreaming of the Imperial Palace with its columns of carved marble and long, gleaming halls, dreaming that she ran down those echoing halls in sandalled feet, but no one responded to her calls—not a single servant, nor her snide stepmother, not even her remote, disinterested father.
“Hello!” She stared down the empty hallway. “Where is everybody?”
“Everybody . . . everybody . . .” the Palace said back to her.
What could have happened? She hadn’t been away at the temple that long, but nothing seemed the same—
“What in Hades are you doing in here!”
A hand of iron seized her shoulder and shook her until she bit her lip. The Palace halls broke into pieces and faded. Groggily, she forced her eyes open and blinked up into a ruggedly handsome, faintly familiar face. “What?”
Quintus Gracchus released her shoulder. “This location is off limits to the entire household!”
“I—” Rubbing her bruised shoulder, Amaelia looked around the room, still half asleep, but the screens displayed only a featureless blue again, betraying no trace of the visitors she had spoken with before. “I—The door was open. No one said that I couldn’t come in.”
His gray eyes raked the room. “I suppose there was no harm done, but you are never to come in here again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?” Standing, she glared up into his tanned face. “Where’s my father? I want to go home now!”
“Yes, your father.” He studied her with flinty eyes. “It is time to speak of him. Perhaps you had better come out into the colonnade and sit down.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere.” She raised her chin. “Especially not with you.”
“Let us both hope you change your mind about that.” The tone of his voice was grim. “This is an unfortunate situation for both of us—me, because I have spent a considerable sum acquiring you at your father’s request, money for which now I have no hope of being compensated, and you, because you are a slave whom it is not in anyone’s interest to free. I think you will find that your choices have become extremely limited. You will have to be very careful that you make the best of them.” Taking her by the arm, he hustled her out the door, then locked it behind them.
“How dare you touch me without my permission!” Even though the house field was still on, the sun had retreated behind heavy, ominous clouds and the air had grown chilly. Amaelia shivered, realizing that she had no more clothes than those on her back.
Gracchus’s mouth straightened into a thin, tight line. “You are only a slave now. I have every right to take any liberty I choose.”
“You said my father would free me!” Rubbing her hands over her arms, she stared angrily into his chiseled face. “I’m no more a slave than you are Emperor, and you’d better remember that!”
“On the contrary.” His voice had an even tone to it, as though she were nothing but the most minor of inconveniences. “Your circumstances have vastly changed since your little escapade at the Public Baths. You will find that you no longer have a father or any status at all, except for slave.”
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 th
at. 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.
The Imperium Game Page 5
