The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  “YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE YOU’D NEVER HAVE THE GUTS TO PLAY THE WAY YOU REALLY WANT TO. YOU’LL NEVER PLAY LIKE ONE OF THEM AND YOU KNOW IT.”

  “I’ll have you erased.” Gracchus’s voice was grim. “This Game can do without a god of war almost indefinitely.”

  “JUST TRY IT, BUSTER.”

  Gracchus stood up. “Don’t tempt me!”

  “YOU COULDN’T HOLD YOUR OWN AGAINST EVEN A DOLT LIKE MERCURY, MUCH LESS ME!”

  “Pompous ass!” Gracchus punched the release code savagely, then paced around the small room with his arms folded tightly across his chest. “More like the god of idiocy, if you ask me.”

  Kerickson flattened himself against the wall. From inside he heard a door open, then close. Risking another look, he saw the room was empty. He hurried inside, shivering, and closed the outer door.

  Standing behind the chair, he considered. His own access code would have been canceled, of course, but perhaps they hadn’t bothered about Wilson’s. He sat in the chair and reached for the keyboard, a pang running through him at the thought of his friend. Why had Wilson been killed? What secrets could this game possibly hold that would be worth even one man’s life?

  He sighed. Well, first things first. He couldn’t worry about the killer until he found Amaelia again, although it sounded as though she was probably safer with a lecherous old goat like Jupiter than Quintus Gracchus. He punched in Wilson’s code and waited.

  The central screen dissolved into the Temple of Jupiter, the HabiTek emblem. “HabiTek,” the voice-over said softly, “where we build a better tomorrow by living yesterday.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath, then punched in Jupiter’s call code. The temple faded and was replaced by a huge eagle apparently swooping in on his face, its talons extended. Kerickson sat back in the chair. “You can cut the dramatics. I’m not impressed.”

  The eagle braced its broad wings and dropped into a graceful landing. “AND YOU’RE NOT WILSON, EITHER.”

  “Never mind that.” He frowned at the bird. “What have you done with Amaelia?”

  “MY LITTLE HONEYDEW MELON?” The eagle snapped its curving beak. “QUITE A NICE NUMBER, IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF.”

  “Keep your volume down!” Kerickson glanced over his shoulder, but the inside door remained closed. “This is a class-two override. I want that girl released right now!”

  “SORRY, LITTLE BUDDY, NO CAN DO.”

  “You can’t refuse a direct override!”

  “I’M AFRAID YOU’LL HAVE TO CHECK WITH MY BETTER HALF ON THIS ONE.” The eagle preened under its wing.

  “Forget Juno.” He mopped at a trickle of sweat on his forehead. “I want the girl!”

  “SHE’S STILL DOWN AT MY TEMPLE.”

  Swearing under his breath, Kerickson punched up the Temple of Jupiter on the adjacent screen, then stared in disbelief. Juno, protectress of married women, tall as a two-story house, paced back and forth before the open door into the inner cella. “What is she doing?”

  “OH, THAT . . .” The eagle ruffled its feathers. “YOU KNOW WHAT AN ACTIVE IMAGINATION SHE HAS, BUT I SWEAR WE HADN’T EVEN SO MUCH AS DISCUSSED BULLS OR HEIFERS.”

  Kerickson flinched as Juno drew back an oversized hand filled with something bright and crackling. “Stop her!”

  “I DON’T THINK SHE’S GOING TO HURT HER.” The eagle’s voice took on a whining tone. “BESIDES, I CAN’T OVERRIDE MY DARLING WIFE. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.”

  “I’m going to sell you for spare parts if you don’t stop her right now!”

  “THAT’S HUMANS FOR YOU. DAY IN, DAY OUT, NOTHING BUT GIVE ME THIS, FATHER JUPITER, GIVE ME THAT, AND NO SENSE OF GRATITUDE AT ALL. WELL, DON’T BOTHER TO COME AROUND ASKING FOR ANY MORE FAVORS.” The eagle disappeared in a shower of blue sparks.

  On the screen, Juno hurled the lightning bolt into the cella. Kerickson tried to get his breath. Surely that was just special effects, but it looked as real as the bolts Mars had been hurling at the city earlier.

  He punched off the Interface—he had to get back to Amaelia. Indeed, he never should have left her. This was all his fault.

  At that moment the inner door swung open.

  THE HAIR on the back of Kerickson’s neck tried to crawl down his spine. He jerked out of the chair and thunked back into the console.

  “I suppose there’s an explanation for this.” Quintus Gracchus’s armored body filled the doorway. He had a chin like an anvil, and close up his muscular legs and arms were even more massive than Kerickson had realized.

  Kerickson turned around and punched Wilson’s code back into the keyboard. “Run diagnostics series fourteen.” The blue central screen dissolved into the Aegis, Jupiter’s traditional shield. “Look, I’ll be done in a moment, and then I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Testing,” the computer said primly. “Primary stats in thirty seconds.”

  “Be done with what?” Gracchus’s voice had the ring of cold, naked steel behind it.

  Kerickson kept his eyes on the bank of screens and hoped that the sweat running down his temple wasn’t visible across the room. “Hey. I’m just doing my job, and I’d a hell of a lot rather be home with my feet up, but it’s in your hands—do you want Mars rampaging through the city again tomorrow or can I finish running these diagnostics?”

  “All four-thousand-level buffers are out of service due to system maintenance,” the computer said. “File allocation tables in ten seconds.”

  “How did you get in here?” Gracchus closed the door behind him. “I gave strict orders I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Kerickson studied the screens for all he was worth as the file allocation tables came up. Then he looked more closely. HabiTek files were showing an unusual amount of activity in the financial sector, over seventy percent filled at the moment. The last time he’d run a check, not more than two months ago, that sector had had closer to thirty percent usage.

  An iron hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him around from behind “When I ask a question, I expect an answer!” The fingers bit into his flesh.

  “Hey, watch it!” Kerickson pulled away and rubbed his shoulder. “Save the rough stuff for the players who pay for it!”

  Gracchus took a fistful of his tunic and yanked him against his armored chest. “Who sent you?”

  Kerickson groped for an answer, then remembered the man who had been there a few minutes earlier—what had Gracchus called him? “The short guy, you know. He just left.”

  Gracchus’s hold loosened a fraction. “Publius Barbus? That insipid excuse for a worm doesn’t know the first thing about computers.”

  “Of course not.” Kerickson eased his tunic out of Gracchus’s fist. “That’s why I’m here.” Smoothing the wrinkled material, he tried to look bored. “Now, can I get on with it, or are you going to waste more of my time?”

  The strong-nosed face stared from Kerickson to the Interface, then back again. Gracchus’s mouth tightened into a grim, disapproving line. “I’m overdue at the Palace.”

  “So?” Kerickson slid back into place before the console and punched up a new set of stats. “Go on. I can find my way out.” The inside of his tunic was glued to his body by cold sweat.

  “Lock up when you leave,” Gracchus said abruptly. “I don’t even allow servants in here.”

  “Sure thing.” He punched another coded request into the computer and pretended to study the resulting figures. “Good luck down at the Palace.”

  Behind him the door opened, then closed.

  He collapsed back in the chair, massaging the aching muscles where Gracchus had wrenched his shoulder, then started to sign off. Just as his fingers touched the keys, though, he hesitated. What about that business in the financial sector? Wilson had said something about HabiTek being involved with “this,” too, whatever that meant.


  He called up the file allocation tables again, but they were just a bewildering array of numbers that would take hours to sort out. “Give me that on hard copy.”

  A second later a thin sheet of white plas fed out into his hand. He folded it up and slipped it inside his tunic to read later. Right now, he had to get out before Gracchus came to his senses and checked his story.

  He punched off, then left through the outside door into the garden, remembering to close it as Gracchus had demanded. He’d already done enough stupid things for one night. No point in calling any more attention to himself than he already had.

  * * *

  For the tenth time, Juno scored with another lightning bolt, this time hitting the temple floor only a few feet from Amaelia. The lightning split into a million dancing, sizzling sparks that ricocheted around the small room. Amaelia covered her head with both arms, her eyes smarting from the smoke as she crouched in the farthest corner.

  “I’M AFRAID THAT WON’T DO YOU A BIT OF GOOD, MY DEAR,” a bemused voice said. “I KNOW A KILLING BLOW WHEN I SEE ONE.”

  “Wh—What?” Amaelia rubbed her burning eyes. Who was that over there on the other side of all that smoke? Not Juno.

  “THEY SAY IT’S QUITE NICE IN HADES, THOUGH—SO PEACEFUL, SO SERENE, AND OF COURSE YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE ICE CREAM YOU WANT.”

  The smoke cleared a little and she got a better look—with those ridiculous winged shoes, that curly golden hair, it could only be Mercury, guider of souls to the Underworld. She raised her Game bracelet, knowing even before she saw it that the status light had gone red—officially dead. “Go away!”

  “NOW, DON’T BE LIKE THAT.” The oversized young man strode toward her through the drifting smoke, his hand extended. “DEATH IS MERELY A PART OF THE GREAT CIRCLE OF LIFE, NOTHING TO GET UPSET ABOUT. YOU’LL SPEND THE REST OF THE QUARTER BELOW, ONLY A FEW DAYS AT THIS POINT, AND THEN YOU CAN START OVER.”

  “I don’t want to start over!” Amaelia brushed plaster chips off her elbows, then stood up, even though her knees wobbled. “I want to leave the Game!” She tipped her head back, glaring at the invisible computer monitors that had to be there. “What is wrong with you? You’re supposed to let me out when I say that!”

  “BUT, MY DEAR CHILD, I CAN DO THAT.” The tiny white wings on Mercury’s heels fluttered.

  “Really?”

  “CERTAINLY.” Mercury twitched at a fold in his gleaming white tunic. “FATHER JUPITER IS QUITE DISTRESSED OVER THIS WHOLE INCIDENT. HE SAID YOU COULD HAVE ANYTHING YOU WANT.”

  She raised her chin. “What I want—is out!”

  “THEN OUT IT WILL BE.” He gestured at the cella door. “SHALL WE?”

  Gathering the torn folds of her tunic in one hand, she peered onto the portico. The altar fire had gone out. The priest was nowhere in sight. Even the broad expanse of the Forum lay quiet and deserted under the dome’s stars. The only visible light came from the corner street lamps and the sacred fires glimmering in the temples across the way.

  “QUIET, ISN’T IT?” Mercury walked past her, his body shedding a silvery radiance. “IT’S THE SATURNALIA. EVERYONE IS HOME PREPARING.”

  Just last year she had looked forward to the Saturnalia, too, with its silly ritual of changing places with the slaves and servants, the expensive little presents, the overall atmosphere of fun and merrymaking. But that had been before her stepmother, Demea, had dedicated her to the Temple of Vesta, and her father had achieved Emperorship—and before his murder.

  She suppressed a shiver. The sooner she got out of this crazy place, the better. From now on she was going to live a real life among real people, none of this childish pretending anymore.

  She raised her chin. “All right, I’m ready.”

  “YOUR LITTER AWAITS.”

  Down at the foot of the steps that led up to the Temple of Jupiter she saw a black-curtained litter, complete with eight bearers dressed in shimmering black tunics. She glanced back at the god. “I’d rather walk.”

  “IT’S QUITE FAR.” Mercury walked down the sweeping marble steps ahead of her. “AND BESIDES, THOSE ARE THE RULES.”

  One of the slaves drew back the black velvet curtains, then bowed so low that his dark-haired head nearly swept the street. She sighed. “Oh, all right.”

  The slaves lowered the litter to the ground. One held her arm as she stepped inside, then drew the curtains again as she sank into a bewildering profusion of oversoft pillows. The litter rose in a smooth, practiced motion, then set off at a steady pace. The bearers’ sandal led feet struck the pavement in rhythmic unison.

  She’d always hated these things; sometimes the swaying made her seasick, and she would have liked to see where she was going. She steadied herself against the sides and tried to relax, promising herself that this time tomorrow, she would be walking outside under real stars, breathing real air, doing . . . real . . . things . . .

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  * * *

  The litter stopped, then lowered to the ground. She roused from a light half sleep and pushed the hair out of her face. “Are we there?”

  “INDEED, WE HAVE ARRIVED.”

  Pushing the curtains aside, she smelled the heavy wetness of water nearby. Were they close to the dome’s abbreviated version of the Tiber River? She had loved visiting the rippling water when it shone all silver-black in the simulated starlight. Belatedly, she realized there were some things about the Game she would miss.

  A black-garbed bearer extended his callused hand to her, then pulled her out into the chill night air. None of the bearers held a torch, but Mercury’s body silvered the rocks and leafless bushes. She looked up into the god’s perfectly chiseled face. “Is this the gate?”

  “YES.”

  The ground rumbled suddenly beneath her feet. She jumped back, staring downward.

  “THERE IS NOTHING TO FEAR. EVENTUALLY EVERYONE COMES THIS WAY.”

  The cold wind gusted and she clutched the remnants of her torn cloak around her shoulders. “Where do I go?”

  He raised an arm and pointed behind her. “THERE.”

  Turning, she saw the edge of a cliff, partially obscured by a grove of myrtle trees. At last she was going to escape this lunatic asylum.

  “GO FORTH AND CLAIM YOUR DESTINY, AMAELIA, DAUGHTER OF MICIO JULIUS METULLUS.” Mercury’s voice rang out in the night. “MAY IT BE EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE.”

  “Well, if it’s not,” she muttered under her breath, walking determinedly toward the base of the cliff, “then I will fix it. I’m through being pushed around!”

  As she approached, the cliff groaned, then split in two and rolled aside, revealing an entrance that sloped downward. She smelled the spicy tang of myrtle as she ducked under the low-hanging trees. Then she hesitated, gazing into a hallway lit by a dim red light that seemed to come from the walls. “Are you sure—” She looked back, but both Mercury and the bearers had gone. She sighed.

  Heated air flowed out of the passageway, soft against her face, warming the goose bumps on her bare arms. She stepped inside, then tried not to jump when the doors closed again behind her. She was going out, home, really, to a world that she hadn’t seen since she was five years old, indeed barely remembered. Really, she thought, there ought to be rules against parents enrolling their minor children. It was one thing for an adult to give his or her life to the Game, but she’d never had a choice.

  The walls of the winding hallway were rough, as though they’d been hewn out of solid rock, but warm to the touch, and getting warmer as she walked. Already her hands and face were thawing for the first time since she’d left the Palace.

  She followed the twisting path, thinking every bend would bring her to the end, and yet it went on. Sweat dripped down her face as the air grew positively hot. Every step took more and more effort. Finally, she shed her cloak and carried it over her arm. From somewhere up ahead she
heard a droning roar. Then the tunnel-like hallway took one more sharp turn and ended unexpectedly in a broad underground gallery. Below, a wild, dark river boiled through a jagged jumble of rocks.

  The walls bathed the scene in a lurid red glow. On the river bank beneath her, a single, hunched figure leaned on a long pole beside a boat beached at the edge of the swirling water.

  “Well?” the figure shouted up at her in a raspy, dry voice. Bewildered, she mopped at her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. “I may have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Could you tell me the way to reach the outside?”

  “Outside?” He cackled for a moment, his voice lost in the roar of the river. “Outside, dearie, is a good two hundred feet straight above!”

  She closed her eyes, then turned around.

  “And where in the name of the Almighty Dark Lord himself do you think you’re going?” he demanded in a shrill voice.

  “Back,” she said, although she was so tired that she didn’t feel as though she could walk another step in any direction.

  “Back?” He laughed again, making his lumpy shadow dance on the rock. “There is no back for the likes of you.”

  “Oh, really?” A flash of anger surged through her. She squared her shoulders. “We’ll just see about that!”

  “No, dearie.” The ragged figure shuffled closer, leaning hard on the knotted pole. “It’s you who will see, once you’ve crossed the Styx with old Charon.”

  * * *

  “SEE?” Pluto drew her closer to the periphery of her new kingdom. “EVEN NOW, THEY COME TO US.”

  Demea smiled. Her veins thrummed with a power more invigorating than any mere heartbeat. She stared down at the small figure perched above the edge of the dark river. “WHO IS THAT?” she asked, but as soon as she formed the question, the answer streaked into her mind: it was Amaelia, her stepdaughter and supposed replacement in the city above—Amaelia, who was to have been Empress in her place.