The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  “YOU CAN DAMN WELL GET ON WITH IT, THAT’S HOW!” He waved an imperious hand at the pair. “I WANT REAL BLOOD, MAYHEM, BRAINS AND INNARDS PAINTED ACROSS THE FLOOR, BITS OF QUIVERING FLESH SPATTERED FROM ONE END OF THIS PLACE TO THE OTHER.”

  “Sire?” Ivita’s square face looked confused, while Amazicus’s jaw sagged.

  “HAVE YOU GOT ANY IDEA WHAT IT’S LIKE BEING GOD OF WAR, DISCORD, AND BATTLE, IN A PLACE WHERE THE WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENS IS A GODDAMNED INFECTED HANGNAIL?”

  The hair quivered on the back of Kerickson’s neck.

  “I’M SICK OF EVERY CANDY-ASSED SO-CALLED GLADIATOR IN THIS JOINT.” Mars’s eyes flashed dangerously red. “FROM NOW ON, I WANT NONSTOP ACTION AND GLORY, OR I’LL TAKE MATTERS INTO MY OWN HANDS!”

  Outside, a clap of thunder rumbled through the dome.

  Was this what Wilson had tried to tell him last night? Kerickson edged silently toward the door. Even if it wasn’t, the quicker he got back into the Interface and checked things out, the better. Mars wasn’t supposed to appear without being summoned, much less insist on blood.

  “AND WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?” the apparition said as it spotted Kerickson. “NOW THAT I’M FINALLY RID OF THAT WORM WILSON, YOU’RE NEXT!”

  “Wilson?” Pressing back against the wall, Kerickson stared at the pudgy God of War. “What about him?”

  Mars threw back his balding head and laughed. His voice echoed through the huge training hall. “JUST THAT SOMEONE FINALLY DID WHAT I’VE BEEN LONGING TO DO. THE LITTLE SNEAK WAS FOUND STABBED TO DEATH AT THE ORACLE’S THIS MORNING.” Turning his head, he looked suddenly very much like the vulture with which he was associated. “I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU’RE MISSING A WOOD-HANDLED DAGGER?”

  “WILSON?” Ivita turned and appraised Kerickson with the look of a cat who’d just got one paw on the canary. “What the hell kind of name is Wilson for a player?”

  Up in the air, Mars stretched his arms back behind his head and lounged full-length on the conjured divan. “WHO THE HELL WAS WILSON IS MORE THE QUESTION.”

  Kerickson’s heart pounded like a ten-piece percussion band as he groped for the side of the door. The floor seemed to swoop out from under his feet. Wilson is not dead, he told himself fiercely. This is only a damned game. Mars just means he is dead in the Game.

  “AT LEAST NOW WE CAN HAVE A DECENT CREMATION.” The god smiled broadly. “BY MY SWORD AND SHIELD, I’VE MISSED THOSE!”

  The Oracle—he had to get to the Oracle and see what this was all about. Kerickson lurched outside into the chill morning air and looked down the hill. On the road below, a cart straggled along behind a moth-eaten donkey, one of the standard disguises for automated tour guides. He could hear the recorded patter about the Imperium from where he stood. Twenty or so people ambled behind it, gazing around with enraptured eyes—obviously day-trippers.

  Mars followed him outside and swelled to a more godlike height. “AND NOW THAT THINGS ARE IMPROVING, WE’LL HAVE SACRIFICES AGAIN—LIVE ONES WITH FAT, BELLOWING BULLS AND SQUEALING PIGS AND RIVERS OF RED, RED BLOOD!”

  The tourists stopped in the middle of the road and pointed at the manifestation. The automated donkey cart trundled on toward the city without them.

  The god’s excited voice climbed higher and higher. “FINALLY, THIS PLACE IS GOING TO RUN AS IT SHOULD HAVE ALL ALONG!”

  The cold air had cleared Kerickson’s mind a little, and he realized that he had to stay in character. If Wilson really was dead in the outside sense of the word, then Kerickson would have no way to reenter the Game if he were thrown out, and he was suddenly very sure that he needed to stay. Something was wrong here, and had been wrong ever since the Minerva program had gone down—how many days ago? He couldn’t remember, and that worried him, too. He had to get his wits together. He had a feeling he was going to need them.

  * * *

  Rome, of course, had possessed a College of Augurs, rather than a true Oracle, but that fact of history had proved so disappointing to the multitudes who had enrolled in the Imperium that HabiTek had been obliged to provide them with a magnificent Oracle personality. After all, as J. P. Jeppers never tired of expounding, HabiTek was in the business of providing entertainment, and if the masses required the flash and mystery of an Oracle instead of a bunch of stodgy old men poking around in gruesome animal entrails down at the College of Augurs, then of course they would have it.

  Kerickson’s way led through the heart of the sprawling Market District, already filled with tourists even at this hour. He passed street vendors and hawkers who might or might not be real people. At any given moment in the Game, it was impossible to know exactly with whom—or what—you might be dealing. He lowered his head and avoided the eyes of all he met, hoping not to be recognized

  Still, the odors of the steaming meat pastries reminded him of how hungry he was, and he finally stopped before a small brazier and handed the buxom female attendant a bronze coin. She fished a sizzling meat pastry out of the hot oil. He juggled the hot shell from hand to hand and blew on it before he took a tentative nibble. Crisp on the outside, juicy on the inside, it tasted wonderful. Encouraged, he took a bigger bite.

  Down the street, someone shouted. He glanced up. A band of teenage boys dressed in the purple-striped juvenile togas of the upper classes were throwing rocks at a gray-headed rug merchant. Kerickson’s hand was automatically groping inside his tunic for his comm unit before he realized that he no longer carried it.

  “Vagrants!” The merchant shuffled vainly to avoid the rocks. “Go home before the Guard has you thrown out of the Game!”

  A tall, stoop-shouldered boy with lank blond hair laughed. “From now on, you stupid old fart, this is the Game. Get used to it!”

  The old man squealed as a rock caught him square against the temple. He crumpled to the street. The boys swooped down upon the lush Persian rugs and scattered them into the shocked crowd. “Here, take them! They’re yours, courtesy of Mars!”

  “WELL DONE, MY CHILDREN, MY BRAVE YOUNG WARRIORS,” Mars’s voice boomed down from above the red-tiled roofs.

  Kerickson dropped the meat pastry as Mars’s huge figure stomped down the street on landcar-sized feet.

  “FORGET ALL THIS PAP ABOUT HONOR AND DUTY.” The beefy face shone down with a fierce red light on the gaping humans below. “I PROCLAIM A NEW AGE OF BOLDNESS AND ADVENTURE!” He leaned down and winked his huge eye at a trembling gray-haired woman. “AN AGE OF BLOOD!”

  Then he disappeared. The crowd milled in the street and stared at each other.

  “I’ve played here for five years, but I’ve never seen anything like that!” Dressed in the off-the-shoulder chiton of a prosperous Greek merchant, a middle-aged man shook his head.

  That was because no one in HabiTek had ever written a Game scenario even remotely like what had just happened. Kerickson rubbed his cold hands together. The Mars program had somehow managed to exceed its parameters. Just who was responsible?

  No longer hungry, he pushed through the uneasy crowd in the direction of the Oracle. He had to find Wilson. This place was going down the old vac-chute in a hurry, and without access to the Interface, he couldn’t run the proper diagnostics to find out what had gone wrong.

  Set on a small rise adjacent to the Temple of Apollo, the Game’s Oracle resided in a gleaming rectangular white marble structure that overlooked the Forum. He labored up the never-ending steps, unable to resist a glance back over his shoulder from time to time, always expecting to see Mars’s face peering down from the sky. And also, he had the prickly feeling that he had forgotten something important.

  At the top, he was surprised to find players from every classification wandering through the white columns of the portico. Consultation was available to all players, of course, but only at the cost of both an expensive gift and a roll of the proverbial dice. Once a player applied for advice, the Oracle would predict, then pro
nounce a random change in one of the vital categories: rank, charisma, or hit points. As a rule, few cared to take the risk of ascending the steps as, say, a respected veteran general of the Numidian Wars, and then descending as an Egyptian onion merchant.

  As Kerickson worked his way through the restless, muttering throng, he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

  “Not so fast, citizen.” The guard reached for Kerickson’s arm and bent down his beak-nosed face to examine his Game bracelet. “What’s your business here?”

  Kerickson recognized the man as a standard-issue robot guard model. Many players changed their roles as often as they changed clothes—some in fact more frequently—and just last year he’d ordered four dozen of this particular robot line to fill in the gaps in the undersubscribed Praetorian Guard. “Just the usual,” he answered uneasily. “Foretelling the future, avoiding disaster, that sort of thing.”

  “Freedman, gladiator trainee, Gaius Clodius Lucinius,” the robot read from his Game bracelet, then scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. “If you’ve come to consult the Oracle, then where is your offering?”

  Damnation! He’d been so unhinged by that fiasco with Mars, he’d completely forgotten the requisite gift. “I . . . uh, have no riches to offer, so I thought I’d just dedicate my first victory in the arena to the Oracle.”

  “Well, go ahead and get into line, but it will be a while.” The guard dropped his arm. “We’re finishing an investigation, and you’ll have to stay out of the way until it’s completed.” Leaving him, it moved to intercept the next supplicant climbing the steps.

  Investigation . . . Kerickson blanched as he spotted a solid row of bronze-armored Praetorian backs off to one side. Was that Wilson over there, his friend, with a dagger in his chest? He edged through the restless crowd of slaves and merchants and nobles who had come to take their chances with the Oracle.

  “SO, YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST PRANCE UP HERE AND ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN.” The voice of the Oracle boomed out through the crisp morning.

  He peeked between the Guards at the small white marble structure that housed the actual Oracle itself, but no supplicant kneeled there, waiting for a pronouncement.

  “THIS IS SACRED GROUND, MOONFACE, AND I’LL THANK YOU TO GET YOUR TUSHIE OFF!”

  A restless murmur ran through the people. Kerickson eased back, trying to keep the bulk of the crowd between him and the Oracle’s sensors. It had been some time since he’d had any dealings with this particular programmed personality, but he had a sudden vague recollection that they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  “YES, I MEAN YOU, DIRTFACE. WELL, IF YOU WON’T LEAVE, THEN COME ON UP HERE LIKE A MAN AND GET YOUR FORTUNE TOLD.”

  There had been some business about a fixation the Oracle had developed with an acolyte of Apollo, a player who had taken every advantage of the situation . . . He cudgeled his brain for the details. The incident had been almost four years ago, but it seemed to him that the acolyte had been played by . . . Micio Metullus.

  “YOU’RE ON MY TURF NOW, SO COME ON OVER HERE AND PLAY, BIG BOY”

  All around him the supplicants dropped to their knees and clasped their hands with an air of reverence. A white-robed attendant stood before the ornate marble housing, his head bowed. “Of whom do you speak, oh wise one?”

  “THE LITILE TURD OVER THERE WITH THE LIMP BLOND HAIR AND THE RUMPLED TUNIC, THE ONE WHO LOOKS LIKE HE HASN’T SEEN THE INSIDE OF THE BATHS FOR A MONTH.”

  Belatedly, Kerickson sank to his knees.

  The attendant scanned the crowd anxiously, shading his eyes from the bright sun. “Turd, your All-Knowingness?”

  “YOU KNOW. THE ONE WITH THE NERVOUS-LOOKING FACE AND THE SCRAGGLY EYEBROWS, THE ONE TOO BIG FOR HIS TUNIC.”

  Eyes moved from side to side as the crowd examined each other out of the corners of their eyes. Doing his best to look perplexed, Kerickson lowered his head, but then a strong hand clasped the back of his tunic and hauled him to his unwilling feet.

  “This one, your Grace?”

  “THAT’S THE TWIT. BRING IT UP HERE.”

  “I’m afraid that there must be some mistake,” Kerickson protested. “I just wanted a few glorious victories in the arena”

  “Shut up!” The attendant stopped before the Oracle and dropped him unceremoniously to the marble floor.

  “SO WE MEET AGAIN.”

  Kerickson straightened his back. “Yeah, yeah, so get on with it. “

  “Show some respect there!” A heavy cane whacked across his back.

  “I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR YOU, YOU FROG-FACED TWERP.”

  “Well, I forgot my gift, so I guess it will have to wait.” Trying not to wince, he got to his feet, keeping an eye out for the attendant all the while. He had really bungled this one. He should have known that the Oracle wouldn’t forget that little disagreement. He’d better get out of here before it blew his cover.

  “I WAIVE THE REQUISITE GIFT IN LIEU OF A SERVICE TO BE RENDERED LATER,” the Oracle said smugly. “DO YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS?”

  He was about to say no when he saw the attendant brace his feet in preparation for another mighty swing with his brass-tipped cane. “Yeah, I guess—”

  “THEN SHUT UP AND BE ENLIGHTENED. MANY SHALL SIT, BUT FEW SHALL EAT. MORE SHALL SEE, BUT FEW SHALL KNOW. ALL WILL COME, BUT ONLY ONE SHALL STAY.”

  “Huh?” He glanced into the Oracle’s shadowy interior. “Could you repeat that?”

  “AND NOW FOR YOUR FUTURE.”

  The oracle hesitated, making Kerickson’s stomach cringe. “I FORESEE A CHANGE IN YOUR CHARISMA.”

  The attendant snickered.

  “IN FACT, FROM NOW ON, YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO TALK A MOUSE INTO EATING CHEESE.”

  Hastily, Kerickson glanced at his bracelet. His charisma rating had dropped from a modest plus-two rating to zero! “Wait a minute, you can’t—”

  “Silence, dog!” The ham-handed attendant seized his tunic and dragged him back into the crowd.

  “Move aside, please,” boomed a big-voiced guard. “Move aside and we’ll get this mess out of the way so that you can get on with your business.” Several Praetorian Guards pushed through the crowd with a litter, headed for the side area, then reemerged with it a minute later.

  Jerking out of the attendant’s hold, Kerickson elbowed his way to the front just in time to see a guard remove a familiar wooden-handled dagger from Wilson’s chest, then drape a coarse wool blanket over the corpse’s pale, lifeless face.

  “My word!” A portly man, dressed in the flowing robes of a Syrian wine merchant, wiped at his face. “This place is becoming more realistic every day. I could swear that poor fellow is really dead.”

  Lead butterflies thumped in Kerickson’s stomach as he watched the guard place Wilson’s dangling hand back on the litter, then twitch the blanket into place. His friend was dead in every sense of the word. He was caught all alone here in the Game, while somewhere inside the Imperium a murderer romped among unsuspecting Roman sheep.

  * * *

  “I trust you slept well, lady?” Gracchus’s dark face regarded Amaelia calmly from the door of her bedchamber.

  In answer, she snatched up a gleaming white statuette of Venus from the table beside her bed and smashed it into splinters against the wall a few inches from his face.

  He didn’t even flinch. “A noble try. Shall I send for a gross so you can practice?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, but she forced them back. She was an Emperor’s daughter. This lowborn jerk was not going to have the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “I want to go home!”

  “And so we shall, my pet, immediately after our nuptials:’ Moving out of the doorway, he motioned to a waiting slave girl. “And may I say you’ve never looked lovelier?”

  “This is so stupid. I’m not going to marry you!” In a fury, she glanced for something else to hurl at his self
-satisfied face. “Not even in this ridiculous Game! I want to see my father!”

  “That can be arranged,” he said smoothly, “although I doubt you would enjoy it. Still, as long as our marriage is completed before the Saturnalia, I’m sure I will be unable to deny you the least little thing.” He reached underneath his bronze chest plate and withdrew a scroll tied with a red ribbon. “By the way, here’s your manumission proclamation.”

  Numbly, she stared at the papers, then checked her Game bracelet. The yellow status light had been replaced by white. “You’re freeing me?”

  “Obviously, since slaves can’t marry.” He smiled, but his eyes remained cold gray stone. “I’ve invited a few friends over this afternoon to witness the solemnization of our vows, which of course won’t take long. The ancients seem to have been incredibly casual about such things. I’ll just say I’m for you, and you’ll do the same for me. Then we’ll trot down to the Imperial Palace and give your beloved stepmother the good news.”

  Where was the stupid Game computer when you needed it? Nothing had gone right for her since her father had forced her into service as a Vestal Virgin, and now this! She definitely didn’t want to play anymore. “You’re going to lose points on this, especially in authenticity. I have no intention of playing your dutiful wife.”

  “Well, of course, I won’t force you, but on the other hand . . .” A smile tugged at his lean lips as the slave girl emerged from the wardrobe with a silk gown of glimmering pale green. “Your alternatives are rather limited. Still, I have to admit that suicide was regarded not only as a highly moral act in ancient Rome, but also as a practical alternative to an unbearable reality. You might just bring me a whole raft of points, at that.”

  Staring boldly into her eyes, the slave girl held the dress out expectantly. Amaelia felt her face go cold. “You wouldn’t!”