The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  According to Proserpina, this guy was a programmer, too. He shook his head. Bad news, no matter which way you looked at it. This was going to have to go all the way up to the big boss, and he was sure to be furious. Barbus rubbed a hand across his stubbly whiskers, then reached for a cup of wine. A sweet deal like the Imperium only came along once in a lifetime. Where else in New York City could a guy both lie low and operate on this sort of scale at the same time? It was worth whatever it took to protect it.

  Glancing around the murky interior of the inn, he satisfied himself that no one was watching and pulled out a wristfone. He punched in a code and waited.

  “What?” a voice barked after a second.

  “It looks like I had an intruder in the work crew last night.”

  “So deal with him.”

  “He—” Barbus hesitated, knowing how he felt about screwups. It wouldn’t do to wind up like the late, unlamented Micio. “He seems to have escaped.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Some bleeder by the name of Arvid Kerickson.” He shifted his weight and the counter creaked. “Word is he’s a programmer for the Game and he’s hooked up with Amaelia Metullus.”

  There was silence for a moment “Interesting pairing.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “That depends. How much does he know?”

  Barbus grimaced. “Beats me. I think maybe he got away before we could dose him.”

  “Then you have no control over him.”

  Barbus began to sweat. He took another swig of wine and let it warm him.

  “But on the other hand,” the voice continued, “he may not know everything.”

  “So, what do you want me to do, boss?”

  “Eliminate him—immediately—with the least amount of mess possible. Do I make myself clear?”

  Barbus grimaced. “Sure, boss, no problem. We’ll make it look like an accident. If you give me computer access, I can have him in an hour or two, maybe even less.”

  “All right, but I expect results!” The wristfone clicked off.

  Barbus slid the device off his wrist and stowed it back under the counter. His fingers touched the long, cool tube of the neuronic buzzer and he smiled. It was such a nice toy, and he had so little chance to use it. He pulled it out and thrust it under the dirty wool of his outer tunic. There was no reason why he and the boys couldn’t have a little fun while they cleaned up this particular problem. After all, it was supposed to be healthy to enjoy your work.

  * * *

  Tucked away in the lower level of the Palace, the Praetorian Headquarters represented everything the ancient Romans had respected: simplicity, respect for authority, and, above all, brute strength. Kerickson’s eyes lingered on the array of stout spears and glittering swords in the weapons rack as the two guards prodded him and Amaelia into a cramped office. Goose bumps still marched up and down his spine, courtesy of his dunking in the frigid Tiber River.

  A middle-aged man with the jaw of a bulldog, and iron-gray hair cut in the standard, unimaginative style of a Roman soldier, looked up from a mass of scrolls and printouts. He leaned back and tapped his chin with a writing stylus. “Is this the pair reported frolicking in the water down at the amusement area?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it frolicking—” Kerickson began, then sneezed explosively.

  “Shut up!” The bigger of the two Praetorians shoved him from behind. “You’ll speak to Adjunct Sixtus when you’re spoken to, and not before.”

  “Do you two know the penalty for endangering yourself and others like that?” The Adjunct’s bushy eyebrows rose over his prominent nose. “You could have caused a serious accident.”

  Kerickson glanced at the guard, who scowled back at him. “Answer him, dog!”

  “Sorry.” Kerickson stifled a second sneeze. “I thought it was a rhetorical question.”

  “Never mind!” The Adjunct shoved several sheets of parchment aside. “Give me your names so I can replace your bracelets and debit your accounts the proper number of points for this little prank.” He poised the stylus. “Well?”

  Although he was tempted to try to bluff his way out, he knew the guards had limited computer access to the players’ records. If he didn’t give the name under which Wilson had enrolled him, they would know in a matter of seconds, and he could not afford to be thrown out of the Game now. He took a deep breath. “Gaius Clodius Lucinius.”

  The Adjunct scribbled it down, then turned to Amaelia with the air of a man who had not slept for three days. “And you?”

  She tugged the borrowed scarlet cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Her face was as white as a Forum statue.

  “Look at her, Sixtus.” The taller of the two Praetorians pulled her chin to one side as though he were examining a side of beef. “I’m sure it’s her, Amaelia Julia Metullus.”

  “Are you sure?” The Adjunct pushed back his chair and got up to peer into her face.

  Pushing the Praetorian’s hand away, she turned her head to ‘ the wall. “Don’t be ridiculous. My name is Flina and I—I’m a kitchen slave in the villa of Didius Festus.”

  “Isn’t this great?” The first guard grinned fiercely, baring a set of teeth that would have been more at home in the mouth of a bear. “Gracchus has been carrying on about her for days, and here she is, right under our noses! There’ll be some big points in this one for all of us, and right before the end of the quarter, too.”

  “Perhaps.” The Adjunct narrowed his eyes. “See if you can find Quintus Gracchus while I have new bracelets made up.”

  The guard saluted, then left. Sixtus shook his head. “You two stay put,” he said sourly to Kerickson and Amaelia, then walked through to the back room.

  Kerickson edged nearer to the door; if Gracchus was in the Palace, it would take only minutes for the guard to find him. It would be smart to leave before he returned.

  But then he reflected that on the other hand, if Gracchus was behind Micio’s and Wilson’s murders, confronting him here with the Praetorian Guards for witnesses might be the safest course. He turned to the remaining guard. “How about some dry clothes and something hot to drink?”

  “Sure thing.” Crossing his arms, the guard looked out the window. “Just as soon as Adjunct Sixtus says so.”

  A moment later Sixtus reentered the office, a Game bracelet in each hand. He handed the first to Kerickson. “Gaius Clodius Lucinius, enrolled three days ago, according to census records, and AWOL from the training school for all three of those days.” He shook his head. “Not a promising start. You’ll never advance that way.”

  Kerickson accepted the bracelet. His status lights were unchanged, including green for freedman and the disappointing hit-point rating of one-half.

  “As for you, young lady . . .” Sixtus scowled at Amaelia. “There is no record of any player, slave or otherwise, under the name Flina, although one of the robot slaves in the Palace is known by that designation. But you do closely resemble the file identification holo of Amaelia Julia Metullus.”

  “She is Amaelia Julia Metullus.” The tall, armored form of Quintus Gracchus filled the doorway. “As well as my wife.”

  “I’m afraid—” The Adjunct handed Gracchus the remaining bracelet. “—at this point, she’s your former wife. According to this status light, she’s dead.”

  “A computer error, I’m sure.” Gracchus slid the bracelet under his chest plate, then reached for Amaelia. “But we’ll have it looked into.”

  She flinched away from his touch. “Leave me alone!”

  “Yeah, hands off!” Kerickson stepped between them. “In fact, Q.G., I think you and I ought to have ourselves a little talk—you know, about Interfaces where there shouldn’t be any, and why the computer won’t release Amaelia from the Game—and her father’s murder.”

  Gracchus’s hard gray eyes
bored into his face. “You and I do have some unfinished business.” The strong features settled into grim lines. His eyes, flat and deadly as a snake’s, flicked to the Adjunct. “Leave us alone for a few minutes, Sixtus.”

  Sixtus’s heavy face looked undecided. “Captain, are you sure?”

  “Leave us!” Gracchus’s voice had granite beneath it.

  Sixtus saluted, then motioned to the other two guards. “We’ll be right outside.”

  A chill ran down Kerickson’s spine as he watched them go; what he had in mind required witnesses to be effective.

  “Now, you were saying?” Drawing a dagger from the ornately tooled leather sheath at his waist, Gracchus turned it so that the light played along the finely honed edge. “Something about Interfaces and murder?”

  “Don’t give me that innocent act, Gracchus. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Kerickson noticed the dagger had a wooden handle just like the one on the dagger that had been buried in Wilson’s heart. “Let’s start with that special room in your villa—you know, the one with the screens and—”

  “And the Interface you were supposedly repairing.” Gracchus balanced the dagger on the ends of two fingers.

  Kerickson met the flinty gaze. “Perhaps you could explain how you came to have an illegal Interface to the Game computer in your villa, or how all those extra points found their way into your account”

  Gracchus flipped the dagger and caught it neatly by the handle. “None of that is any concern of yours, freedman.”

  “And Micio’s murder, I suppose that’s none of my business either?”

  “The Emperor’s murder?” Gracchus rose with a clink of armor. “By Jupiter, I don’t know anything about that. I was otherwise occupied that unfortunate morning—following the Emperor’s orders to rescue his daughter from the Slave Market.”

  “Daughter?” Kerickson glanced aside at Amaelia.

  “Oh . . .” She put a hand to her throat. The last vestiges of color fled from her cheeks. “He was with me when my father was killed—he was bringing me back from Delos. He couldn’t have been at the Baths.”

  Kerickson felt as though someone had just shoved him over a cliff. He could have sworn that Quintus Gracchus had killed Micio! Everything else fit: the unofficial Interface, the illegal points funneled into his account, his so-called marriage to Amaelia, and his subsequent play for Emperor. “Well, there’s still the matter of the Interface.” He tugged at his clammy tunic collar, which seemed to be shrinking. “And all those unearned points in your account. You’ve been cheating for months. You have no right to become Emperor.”

  “Of course I’m cheating. It’s an authentic Roman practice, reputedly employed by the ancients themselves to great advantage.” Gracchus’s handsome olive-skinned face smiled, although the expression never reached his chill gray eyes. “And before you even think about having me disqualified, consider this: if I reveal your presence on the playing field to HabiTek, you’ll be out of this game in two seconds—and you’ll never find the real murderer.” He sheathed the dagger in one smooth motion. “That is why you’re still mucking around in here, is it not?”

  Kerickson fought to keep the dismay off his face. If Gracchus hadn’t killed Micio and Wilson, then who in the name of all the gods he’d ever programmed had? “Who’s helping you with all this, Gracchus? You can’t be doing this point scam all on your own. What do you know about the Spear and Chicken?”

  Gracchus glanced at him with heavy-lidded eyes, then took Amaelia’s arm so fast that Kerickson almost didn’t see him move. “I think it’s about time you went back to the Gladiatorial School and started playing your role, Kerickson.” Amaelia struggled, but Gracchus just tightened his hold. “Otherwise, I might find it necessary to augment the number of slaves used as lion fodder in tomorrow’s games in honor of the Saturnalia. Of course, the slaves are all supposed to be mechanicals and holos, but—” He nuzzled Amaelia’s ear. “—mistakes have been made, and once made, like Micio, it’s too late to do anything about them. Now, we wouldn’t want that to happen to you or the young lady here, would we?”

  Kerickson’s hands clenched. “Leave her out of this!”

  “Oh, but she has to play her part, too, just like the rest of us.” Gracchus’s voice was smooth as water. “Once I’m Emperor, she can leave the Game or play my Empress or do anything else she wants. But until then, she’s mine.”

  Kerickson launched himself at the Praetorian, but without seeming to move Gracchus clouted him behind the ear with what felt like an iron club. Just as Kerickson’s face smacked the tiled floor, he heard Gracchus calling the other guards back.

  “Dump this piece of freedman filth back at the Gladiatorial School where it belongs—and tell them to use him in the games tomorrow. And you tell Nerus Amazicus that if I ever see this little turd again, he’ll take his place in the arena!”

  “Yes, Emperor!” Rough hands grabbed Kerickson by the shoulders. “Stand up, damn you!”

  He tried to make his legs hold up his weight, but they seemed to be on vacation. How—How had Gracchus moved so fast? He couldn’t fit it together in his mind.

  “Come on!” One of the guards looped Kerickson’s arm around his neck and dragged him through the door.

  “Gaius!” Amaelia called after him. “Please, Quintus, don’t hurt him!”

  “A noble sentiment, my dear,” he heard Gracchus reply. “But perhaps you would do better to worry about yourself. After tomorrow . . .”

  The voices faded into unintelligible garble. Kerickson tried to look back over his shoulder, but his neck refused to hold up the weight of his aching head, and his eyes insisted on looking in opposite directions.

  “Get in, turd-breath!” A slap rocked his face. “If you think I’m going to carry you all the way across the city, you’re crazy!”

  The rectangular form of a litter lay on the street before him, with a sullen slave stationed at each corner. Blinking furiously, he managed to half fall, half sit in the unpadded conveyance.

  “Ask for Nerus Amazicus and give him this note,” the guard said to one of the slaves as he reached down and jerked the curtains closed in Kerickson’s face. “And you tell him for me that if I see this piece of shit anywhere outside the arena, no one over there is getting his next fix, and that includes you four. Do I make myself clear?”

  Whether they agreed or not, the litter rose and moved off at a brisk pace. Kerickson gripped the sides for support and tried to cudgel some sense out of his brain. What “fix” was the guard talking about, and why did they keep saying that he was going into the arena? Real players didn’t fight. HabiTek employed holo simulations or mechanicals for the re-creations of the Roman games. It was too dangerous to let humans go at each other with real weapons, even if they were trying to be careful.

  His head spun and he closed his eyes. He had to get back to Amaelia. He had to find out who was behind Gracchus.

  Taking a deep breath, he peeked through the curtains to see where they were at the moment. One of the slaves cursed and jerked them closed again.

  Inside the litter the air shimmered, then resolved itself into a small brown owl. “THIS ISN’T VERY PRODUCTIVE, YOU KNOW.”

  “Not now, Minerva.” Kerickson pinched the bridge of his nose and clamped his eyes shut. A black weariness dragged at his mind. “I’m trying to think.”

  “YOU REALLY BOTCHED IT BACK THERE WITH GRACCHUS.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you could have done better?”

  The owl sniffed. “A TRUE HERO WOULD NOT HAVE ABANDONED HIS LADY.”

  In spite of himself, his eyes flew open. “Look, I never said I was a hero!”

  “IF YOU DON’T ACT NOW, AMAELIA WILL DIE.” The owl perched on his knee. “THE WHOLE CITY WILL BE LOST!”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlarge upon that.” A muscle twitched along Kerickson’s jaw. He drew his knees
up and glared at the seedy-looking bird. “It’s all very well for you to go on all the time about saving the city, but you might at least tell me how!”

  The owl’s gray eyes began to spark. ·’LISTEN. BUSTER, YOU BETTER GET IT TOGETHER AND MOVE YOUR ASS!”

  “Shut up in there!” one of the litter bearers shouted. “Crassus said we had to deliver you, but he never said you had to be in one piece!”

  THE OWL rotated its head to look over its shoulder, then disappeared with a pop. Kerickson ground his teeth. So much for divine inspiration. Nothing, but nothing, worked right around here anymore. They must have hired a band of idiots to take his place. If he were back at his old job in the Interface, it would take him days, maybe even weeks, to get everything running again the way it should.

  Then he realized—that was it. He had to get into the Interface—the real one, not Gracchus’s, where there was sure to be an adequate guard now. All the answers had to be there. Since Game programs had been compromised through the illegal Interface, the computer must contain some record of how Gracchus had managed to funnel points into his own account. Who had helped him—and how? The answer to that probably contained the key to everything else.

  The litter swayed around a corner. He peered out through the moving curtains and saw that they had entered the twisting, rubbish-clogged streets of the Subura, People, laughing and rowdy, jostled the litter, grabbing at the curtains and harassing the bearers, who swore and warned them off.

  He waited until they were snarled in a particularly thick knot of pedestrians, then burst through the curtains and hit the ground running, elbowing his way through the sea of togas and tunics, drawing angry protests and curses at every step.

  The bearers shouted behind him as he ran. His head ached, and even though it was cold he broke out in feverish sweat. Finally he threw himself behind a statue of Venus and hunkered down as his pursuers pounded past.

  “OH, COME ON, MR. HOTSTUFF, QUIT WASTING TIME,” a sulky voice said above his head “THERE ARE FOUR OF THEM AND ONLY ONE OF YOU, AND HAVE YOU LOOKED IN THE MIRROR LATELY? THEY’RE ALL BUILT LIKE SPACE-TRUCKS. SAVE EVERYONE A LOT OF TROUBLE. ADMIT THE INEVITABLE AND DIE.”