The Imperium Game

by K. D. Wentworth

  He grabbed a handful of the General’s spotless white toga and urged him toward the door. “No, the only way out is in. Unfortunately, they’ve upgraded the Interact codes since this fiasco began and I don’t know any working codes at the moment, but I do have Wilson’s access, and if you can just get me back into the Interface—”

  Catulus seized Kerickson’s wrist. “Boy, I think you’ve been out in the sun too long. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Oh?” Kerickson scratched his head, his mind so full of buzzing possibilities that he found it hard to respond. “Well, you’d better keep this to yourself, but I’m not really a player. I am, or was, one of HabiTek’s two head programmers.”

  “A HabiTek programmer—out here on the field?”

  “You’ve probably noticed, things haven’t been running very well lately. I’ve been trying to make some—adjustments.” He shook his head. “But none of that matters. What we really need to do now is get me back into the Interface.”

  Catulus nodded. “Well, if I can take Britannia and Lesser Spain, I guess I ought to be able to manage one door.”

  * * *

  Amaelia heard movement behind her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene down in the street. The scarlet crests of Praetorian soldiers bobbed everywhere as they rounded up the citizens below and herded them away; in the distance, she could see Mars’s red-eyed face up in the sky, nodding his approval.

  “Lunch, lady?” a soft voice asked.

  She swallowed hard. “No, thank you, Flina.”

  Something rattled behind her. “You must eat something.”

  Amaelia glanced over her shoulder at the tray of fresh bread, figs, and golden cheese, but her stomach knotted at the thought of eating. “I’m afraid I—couldn’t.” She turned back to the window.

  Below, the red-cloaked guards pushed and prodded, and anyone who resisted was struck down. She could see the bright blood even from here, trailing down one man’s face like a forking stream. And the screaming, even muted as it was, raked across her nerves until she felt like joining in.

  It was all so bizarre. She had lived in this play-city for most of her life, had seen simulated violence of every sort from torture to the brutal games in the Coliseum, but always she had been secure in the knowledge that none of it was real.

  “I’ll just leave the tray.” Flina’s cool fingers touched her shoulder.

  She heard the door open and close again. At least it hadn’t been Quintus Gracchus. She shuddered. What did that man want from her? She had studied his dark, hawk-nosed face at the Senate House this morning, trying to read what lay beneath it, but she saw nothing except a confident, power-hungry man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  A tear leaked from one eye, more because she was furious than anything else. She wanted to be doing something, at least trying to find a way out of this mess. She would go crazy unless—

  “HAVING A BIT OF A CRY, ARE WE, MY DEAR?”

  Amaelia turned around, ice forming in her heart. She knew that condescending voice, not only from Hades, but from the last few miserable years with her father.

  “BEING EMPRESS NOT ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE?” A fist-sized splotch of inky blackness danced in the middle of the room, then resolved itself into a woman so tall that her head brushed the ceiling. She glanced down at the simple black gown that swathed her from neck to toes, then waved a hand to cover it with a field of glittering stars. “THE DEFAULT GOWN OF THIS PROGRAM IS SO TACKY, I HAVE TO START OVER EVERY TIME I MANIFEST.”

  Amaelia stood. “What do you want, Demea?”

  “THAT’S ‘YOUR MAJESTY, PROSERPINA, QUEEN OF THE DARK REGIONS’ TO YOU, YOU LITTLE SNOT!” Her stepmother stared fiercely down at her. “AS TO WHAT I WANT, WELL, OF COURSE THERE IS THE MATTER OF YOUR UNFINISHED SENTENCE BELOW.” Demea smiled thinly and strolled toward her, trailing stars that glowed like embers, then extinguished themselves one by one. “BUT I ALSO WANT A WORD WITH ARVID, AND AS HE SEEMS TO COME AND GO THESE DAYS WITHOUT THE HINDRANCE OF A BRACELET, I CAN’T FIND HIM.” Her dark eyes began to spark. “BUT I IMAGINE HE’LL COME SNIFFING AROUND YOU SOONER OR LATER.”

  “Arvid—you mean Gaius?” She watched her stepmother’s sharp-planed face with growing dread.

  “THAT DOES SEEM TO BE THE NAME HE’S ADOPTED LATELY.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him so you might as well go away.” Amaelia turned back to the window, although the skin on her exposed neck crawled

  “OH, I THINK I’LL JUST STAY UNTIL HE SHOWS UP.” Demea curled around the bedpost like a huge black cat. “I KNOW HIM. HE HAS SUCH AN OVERDEVELOPED, MISGUIDED SENSE OF LOYALTY, HE’S BOUND TO SHOW UP, ESPECIALLY ONCE HE HEARS YOU’RE IN DANGER.”

  “But I’m not in—” Amaelia broke off as a ball of blue energy formed in the goddess’s hands. A sizzling filled the air, along with the smell of burnt metal. Her hair stood on end.

  The door banged open. “What the—” Quintus Gracchus scowled across the room. “Knock it off, Proserpina!”

  “SINCE WHEN DO YOU CARE ABOUT THE GAME?”

  “We’re not playing games anymore.” Gracchus drew his sword and held it up, his eyes following the play of light along the gleaming blade. “From now on, we’re going to fulfill our destiny as Romans, and playing has nothing to do with it.”

  “SOUNDS LIKE FUN.”

  “It could be, in the right company.”

  “AND WHAT ABOUT THE GIRL?”

  “Oh, I have plans for her that might satisfy even you.” A smile played over his sensuous lips. “You know, Rome hasn’t had a decent sacrifice since I first arrived, and it’s been on my mind to provide something really spectacular to celebrate my ascension to Emperor. And of course, Mars has been ever so much help.”

  “TELL ME MORE,” Demea demanded in a low, throaty voice. Her eyes glowed as red as burning coals.

  “Why don’t you come into my quarters, where we will be undisturbed?” Gracchus reached for the door. “I do hate to gossip in front of—” He glanced back at Amaelia. “—the chattel.”

  * * *

  As he and Catulus cut through the Market District to the Interface, Kerickson couldn’t get used to the sight of Praetorian Guards armed with neuronic buzzers. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he turned to the General. “Maybe we should—”

  Before he could finish, Catulus jerked him behind a large black-marble fountain. “Someone’s coming!”

  Kerickson rubbed his arm. This was taking entirely too long. At this rate, by the time they reached the Interface, there wouldn’t be anyone left for the police to save—that is, if they made it to the Interface at all.

  Two men ran past. Catulus popped up and waved at them. “Cassio! Brutus! Over here!”

  They stopped, spotted Catulus, and joined them behind the fountain. Catulus gripped them both by the hand. “These are two of my centurions, both good men. We can trust them.”

  Kerickson nodded at the grim-faced, bloodied men. Obviously, they had both already run into trouble. “Okay,” he said, then hunkered closer. “This is what we have to do.” Picking up a twig, he drew in the dust. “I need to get into the Interface, which is here.” He indicated the bakery.

  Appropriating the twig, Catulus drew another street. “So what we will have to do is cause a diversion here.” He stared at the two from under his shaggy gray eyebrows. “What do you think?”

  The older of the two, dressed in the torn uniform of a Legionary, grimaced. “Maybe. I have some men hidden in one of the insulas not too far from here. Several of them are injured, but I think we could still stir up some trouble.”

  “That’s all we need; it won’t do any good for you to engage them.” Catulus clasped him hard on the shoulder and stared into his eyes. “You realize what we’re up against here, don’t you? None of this has anything to do with the Game. These people are robots and drug-runners and criminals an
d the like, so whatever you do, don’t get caught. Just make a lot of noise and then get the hell out of there.”

  The Legionary nodded.

  “All right, then, off with you, and if you find anyone else from our company, send them here to back me up. We’ll wait half an hour for you to get into place before we make our move.”

  The Legionaries half rose, but then Kerickson thought of one more thing. “Take off your bracelets, and have all your men get rid of theirs immediately so no one can follow your movements.”

  They nodded, then hurried away in a half crouch.

  “Half an hour.” Kerickson shaded his eyes and studied the dome’s yellow sun. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “If we wait longer than that, boy, there won’t be anyone left to make a diversion.”

  Kerickson knew he was right. The city was being emptied of players with alarming efficiency, helped immensely by Mars, who was striding through the streets on his six-story legs and pointing out stragglers to the robot Praetorians.

  He heard the sound of running sandals and drew his dagger, although what good a dagger would be against robots escaped him. Catulus touched him on the shoulder. “Wait until they’re past, then we’ll jump them.”

  Kerickson nodded. The feet grew louder and louder, and he felt his heart thudding in time. He wasn’t cut out for this. Too bad Minerva hadn’t found better hero material to look after her city.

  The feet slowed as they rounded the corner. Someone whispered hoarsely, “General? General Catulus?”

  “Brutus!” Catulus bobbed up. “What about the diversion?”

  “I sent Cassio on ahead.” Brutus laid his head back against the stone lip of the fountain, trying to slow his ragged breathing. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  Catulus shook his shoulder. “Know what?”

  “About the Emperor’s daughter.” Brutus swabbed the sweat off his face with his sleeve. “Mars manifested in the Forum a few minutes ago and announced he’s going to have a sacrifice—a real one.”

  “With Amaelia?” Kerickson found himself standing without even realizing that he’d gotten up. “Where—when?”

  “At his temple.” Brutus swallowed hard. “At sundown.”

  GATHERING men as they made their way through the ransacked city, Catulus’s force numbered a scant fourteen when they reached the Forum. Kerickson stared at the broad, nearly deserted plaza. The market stalls were scattered, their wares strewn across the empty pavement. Instead of people, the Forum was filled with copper pots and straw brooms and the broken bits of souvenir temples.

  “This is crazy.” Catulus ducked down behind an overturned fortune-teller’s booth. “We should have gone to the Interface like we planned.”

  “Then we’d be too late for Amaelia.” Kerickson hugged a discarded Legionary’s helmet to his chest and scuttled under a ripped awning. The wind flapped the striped material over his head.

  “But she’s just one person.” The general crab-walked over to a better vantage point. “Over three thousand people are trapped in here, and every last one of them is in just as much danger.”

  “You don’t understand—it’s my fault she’s in trouble.” Kerickson grimaced. “I should have gotten her out when she first asked.” He saw the red crests of a horde of Praetorians and Legionaries gathered around the lower steps at the Temple of Mars—no doubt robots every one, and impervious to anything Catulus’s small and beleaguered force could muster.

  Hooves clattered on the far right. Changing his position, he saw a horse-mounted company entering the Forum from the Via Appia. Gracchus rode in front on a big, thick-necked bay and led a sleek mare of the purest white, carrying a woman shrouded in a white cloak that rippled in the wind.

  A red-hot knot of anger rose in his throat. Gracchus had to be insane to take the Game so seriously! He had to be stopped, but how? Catulus’s band of ragged survivors was no match for Gracchus’s robots. What he needed was a working override code, but whoever was in the Interface now had caught onto him when he was trapped down in Hades, and he had no idea what the upgraded codes were. If only he could get into that damn computer!

  “Minerva!” he whispered suddenly. “Minerva, where are you?”

  The air shimmered next to his head. “YES?”

  “I need the new Interact emergency vocal override code.” He ducked his head as Gracchus reined in his bay at the foot of the temple. “You’re part of the Game computer. See if you can get it for me.”

  The shimmer became an owl. It sneezed, then managed somehow to look dubious. “I CAN’T ACCESS THE SACRED LANGUAGE, AND BESIDES, I WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT AN OVERRIDE WAS IF I DID FIND IT.”

  As Gracchus dismounted, Amaelia jerked the mare around and tried to kick it into a gallop.

  Gracchus leaped off his horse and wrenched the girl out of the saddle. The mare’s hoofbeats echoed through the Forum as it fled toward the Market District.

  Kerickson clenched his fist until the bones showed white through the skin. “Then get someone to help you!”

  “YOU ARE THE ONLY PROGRAMMER LEFT IN THE GAME.”

  Gracchus dragged Amaelia up the steps. Halfway to the top she slipped, and would have fallen except for his grip. Kerickson swore as the Praetorian captain jerked her to her feet and then backhanded her.

  He rose. “I’m going after her. Catulus, I want you to create a diversion over by the Temple of Apollo in a couple of minutes, then take your men and break into the Interface by going through the bakery on the Via Labincana. Once you’re in, call the police and open all the gates.”

  Catulus nodded.

  Kerickson put on the helmet and watched Catulus lead the others back toward the Market District. If only Wilson were here, he could have sent him back to the Interface to retrieve the new Interact code. In fact, Wilson had probably known what it was. He had been in charge of all the upgrades—

  Wilson . . . The real Wilson had died, but part of him still existed inside the computer. “Minerva, can you locate Wilson’s shade?”

  The owl appeared at his elbow. “YES.”

  “Then use it to help you with the override code.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm the sick jumpiness in his stomach. “I need it right now!”

  The owl clicked its beak and disappeared. He waited, listening for Catulus’s diversion. Finally, yelling erupted from the Oracle’s temple on the far end of the plaza, along with a thin curl of smoke. He couldn’t wait any longer for Minerva. “Damnation!” he said under his breath, then raced across the Forum, holding on to the helmet.

  Half of the soldiers and guards ran toward Catulus’s diversion, leaving Kerickson with at least sixty to handle himself. His bare feet slapped across the paving stones, not nearly as noisy as sandals, but loud as cannons in his own ears. About twenty feet away he skidded to a halt behind a towering war memorial topped by a statue of Julius Caesar.

  Near the top of the Temple of Mars’s huge steps, Gracchus had pushed Amaelia behind him. The Praetorian’s voice rose and fell across the plaza like an angry tide. He seemed to be arguing with someone in the portico’s shadow. Kerickson sheathed the dagger, adopted his most unemotional expression, and then strolled across the plaza as though he had every right to be there. As he merged with the Legionaries, the voices were loud enough for him to make out.

  “You idiot, you’ve ruined everything!” the man at the top cried. “My instructions were very explicit. None of this was supposed to happen!”

  Kerickson edged through the waiting Legionaries, trying to get a better look, but all he could see was a white tunic pacing back and forth in the deepening shadows.

  “My instructions were to become Emperor—no matter what.” Gracchus thrust his gleaming blade into the air. “And I did!”

  “LEAVE THE BOY ALONE,” Mars’s immense voice boomed from above the temple. “HE’S THE FIRST MAN I
N THIS WHOLE GAME WITH ANY—” The big voice broke off, then the red-eyed face peered down at him. “WELL, WHAT HAVE WE HERE? A LITTLE SOMETHING EXTRA FOR THIS EVENING’S SACRIFICE?”

  Kerickson felt the weight of the god’s gaze and tried to slip behind the soldiers.

  “THERE, IN THE BACK!” Mars gestured with a spear the size of the Washington Monument. “PULL HIM OUT WHERE WE CAN ALL HAVE A LOOK!”

  Implacable robot hands seized Kerickson’s arms and dragged him forward to the foot of the spotlessly white marble steps. He saw Amaelia’s pallid face staring down at him, saw her lips form his name.

  The robot Legionaries forced him onto his knees on the hard pavement. The heavy helmet slipped down over his nose and pain shot up through his legs. “Minerva!” He looked up into the sky. “I really need that code now!”

  “NO POINT IN PRAYING TO THAT WIMP!” Mars stepped over the temple, then shrank until he could stand at the top of the steps. His bearded face split in a wide grin. “ALL SHE CARES ABOUT IS CRAP LIKE JUSTICE AND PROSPERITY.”

  “Minerva!” Kerickson craned his head.

  Mars laughed so hard that he had to hold his bulging belly. “TEAR HIS ARMS OFF, BOYS. THAT’LL GET THIS SHOW OFF TO A GOOD START.”

  The two robots holding his arms immediately braced in opposite directions. Kerickson threw his weight to the left, hoping to knock the robot off balance. “Minerva, it’s now or never!”

  “OH, ALL RIGHT!” The owl reappeared. “YOU SHOULD CULTIVATE A LITTLE PATIENCE.”

  Kerickson’s right arm snapped; a red river of pain drenched him from head to toe. He sagged in the robots’ relentless hands, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

  “WILSON SAYS IT’S ‘BLUEBIRD FOUR-A.’ ” The owl fluttered to the ground and pecked at a speck of flotsam by his foot. “I CERTAINLY HOPE THAT MAKES MORE SENSE TO YOU THAN IT DOES TO ME.”

  “Bl—Blue—” Kerickson could not concentrate around the pain to say the words. “Bluebird—”