“It was Jeppers all the time.” He rolled his sleeve back down over his newly mended ann. “He must have conspired with Micio Metullus, the Game’s reigning Emperor, to use the Underworld as a hiding place for criminals and a staging area for drug-running.”
“So Jeppers wasn’t lying,” Amaelia said from the corner. “My father had a part in this, too.”
Kerickson nodded. “I think the whole scheme was originally Micio’s idea. Probably, Jeppers got wind of it, then demanded to be cut in. In return, he made things a lot easier—sabotaged certain programs likely to interfere, such as Minerva and Apollo, let Micio use Gate Four without supervision, allowed the criminals free run of the Underworld.”
His head sagged back against the cushioned headrest. “And I was so stupid! I never suspected for a minute. It was Wilson who realized something was really wrong. The day before Micio’s murder, he’d been down at the Gladiatorial School, investigating the sale of extra hit points. He must have seen something there—maybe dead players who were supposed to be in the Underworld, or formerly inept Gladiators who’d risen too far in the rankings, or even drugged-out addicts begging for their next fix!”
Amaelia slipped behind his chair and reached down to touch his face with cool, slim fingers. “You couldn’t have known.”
“But he enrolled me as a gladiator trainee!” Kerickson lurched to his feet. “I should have known that wasn’t a random choice and started looking there. Instead, I chased over the entire Imperium, when it was obvious that anyone selling hit points had to have an illicit input into the Game computer.”
The Arjack cocked its head in a very lifelike gesture. “So you think Giles Wilson was murdered by Jeppers, too.”
“He admitted it.” Kerickson mopped at the sweat on his face with his sleeve. “Wilson was getting too nosy. Jeppers couldn’t afford to have smart programmers around, ones that could put two and two together. He needed idiots—like me.”
“I don’t think an ‘idiot’ could have rescued me from Hades.” Amaelia sat down in Wilson’s old chair. “Or gotten that override that stopped Quintus Gracchus and the rest of his robot guards. In fact, I don’t think anyone else in the Game could have done what you did.”
The warmth in her voice penetrated through the fog of weariness that was dragging him down. He felt his cheeks go warm.
“Well, that’s a very interesting theory,” the Arjack broke in, “but we need some sort of proof. The memory banks of the Game computer now hold the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Galactica—with addendums. At the moment, it’s just going to be your word against his. Even with a truth-scan, we might not be able to get a conviction.”
Proof . . . Kerickson ran a hand back through his hair. Jeppers had made every effort to cover his tracks. And yet there had to be something, the back of his mind whispered to him—something that could be turned over to the police.
“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbled. “I can’t think of a thing right now.”
The doctor shot the Arjack a pointed look. “He really should get some rest.”
“All right.” The Arjack nodded. “We’ll come back tomorrow, after we finish questioning the men we’ve already arrested. Maybe you’ll have something more for us by then.”
Kerickson sat down. “Thank—” He broke off as he felt something flexible and thin slide over his ribs. Reaching inside his tunic, he pulled out several plas sheets and stared at them numbly.
“What’s that?” Amaelia asked.
“The stats.” A slow smile spread across his face. “The diagnostics I ran on Gracchus’s Interface—the ones that first clued me in.”
The Arjack held out its hand and accepted the flimsy plas sheets. “Then we just may have what we need after all.”
* * *
“I feel silly,” Kerickson admitted over the clop of the horses’ hooves on the pavement of the Via Appia.
Amaelia smiled and leaned against him as the chariot turned to enter the Forum, where it seemed the entire Game had come out to see the triumph awarded to him by the Senate. “This is quite an honor. You might as well relax and enjoy it.”
“Remember, thou art only a mortal,” a voice intoned from behind him. “Remember, thou art—”
“And you!” Kerickson turned around and glared at the wrinkled old slave. “You might as well save that stuff for the real players.”
Amaelia put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s traditional,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear. “Don’t hurt Tithones’s feelings. He might never get the chance to do this again.”
The crowd cheered as the chariot approached the Temple of Jupiter, the traditional ending point for all triumphs. Kerickson gripped the reins tighter as the two black horses flattened their ears and jerked their heads, upset by all the noise. How had he ever let himself get talked into this? It was pointless. What he really needed to be doing was looking for another job.
Of course, he had been rather busy the last few days adjusting the parameters on all the god programs, resetting the weather back to midwinter, and rebooting all the memory banks that Jeppers had copied over. And then there had been the problem of what to do about Pluto and Demea.
When the police had finished investigating, they took Kerickson to see the highly illegal bio-Interface hidden within the Underworld. It contained only two bodies at the moment: Alline and a man named Delbert Wayne Fields, who had been playing Pluto.
“It’s permanent,” the Arjack had said after it opened the door into the tank room. “Fields must have paid Jeppers a fortune for this setup.”
Kerickson stared at the man beneath the first tank’s transparent cover—a short, middle-aged, balding man who had nothing in common with Pluto’s smoldering dark presence—then moved on to the second tank and gazed down at his ex-wife’s still, white face. “What do you mean, permanent?”
“Certain cerebral connections have been permanently severed. Their bodies’ autonomic functions are being maintained by the tanks’ systems and will cease to function if we remove them.”
“They’ll die.” Kerickson touched the frigid plas, feeling like a character in a grade-D holo.
“They cannot remain here unless HabiTek approves.” The Arjack shook its head. “This is their facility, and they’re not legally bound by Jeppers’s actions. He had no authority to authorize something like this.”
Afterward, without really understanding why, Kerickson had gone to the HabiTek board and asked for approval to leave the pair connected, promising to limit their actions much more severely than any of the other god programs. In a way, it was a unique punishment. They would go on in that sort of half-life until the natural death of their bodies, with no hope of reprieve, no chance to ever walk the real world again.
Still, he told himself as the chariot approached the foot of the temple, he supposed it was better than the alternative.
The noise level continued to rise; the horses rolled their white-rimmed eyes and tried to bolt as he hauled back on the reins to halt them at the bottom of the great white marble steps.
At the top, under the portico, Oppius Catulus raised his arms and signaled for quiet. Like an ocean wave throwing itself against the beach, the crowd’s noise crested, then receded. He waited another moment, his purple cloak billowing in the chill breeze, then nodded. “We have come here today to honor Gaius Clodius Lucinius, known in the outside as Arvid Gerald Kerickson. “
Two Praetorian Guards took a firm hold on the horses’ headstalls so that Kerickson and Amaelia could get out of the chariot. Tall and graceful, Amaelia swept up the gold-inlaid steps, every inch a princess. He followed behind, feeling like an imposter and a fool.
When he reached the top, Catulus shook his hand, then turned him around to stare out over the kaleidoscopic sea of expectant faces below. “Some of us have played less than a quarter, while others like myself have spent years perfecting
our roles.” His voice rang out deep and clear in the crisp winter air. “The Game is more than important to us; it is our life.” A roar of agreement went up from the assembled slaves and freedmen, nobles and Legionaries and barbarians.
Catulus waited until the noise abated. “By risking your own life to find the murderer and expose the conspiracy, you have shown a dedication rare in this modern, self-absorbed age of ours.” The crowd roared again, the people raising their arms high into the air. He nodded and waved them quiet. “As reigning Emperor, I have been asked to make you an offer, Gaius Clodius Lucinius.”
Kerickson stared at his feet, acutely uncomfortable in the middle of so much attention focused solely on himself.
“HabiTek will pay you double Jeppers’s old salary if you will agree to stay on in the Interface and supervise the Game.”
Kerickson shook his head even as the crowd began to chant his name. He didn’t want to stay here, to be reminded daily of how he had failed—a failure that had cost Wilson his life and caused millions of credits in damages. It would take at least a year to set everything to rights again, perhaps longer.
The crowd noise dribbled away into a surprised mutter.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Catulus. “I appreciate the offer, but I really think it would be better for everyone concerned if I just moved on.”
“NOT FOR ME, MY HERO,” a vibrant female voice said from behind.
He whirled around and saw the air sparkle like light reflected from water, then solidify into the twice-life-size form of a dazzling young woman wearing the Aegis on her breast—the storm shield of her father, Jupiter. She smiled, then walked forward, her sheer white gown swirling around her body as she gazed down at him. Below, the crowd dropped to its knees as though it had a single mind.
At the top of the steps, Catulus and Amaelia knelt, too, bowing their heads. “Minerva, Goddess of Wise Counsel,” Amaelia murmured. “We are honored by your presence.”
“AND I BY YOURS, CHILD.” Minerva’s gray eyes glowed. “YOU HAVE SHOWED RARE COURAGE AND SENSE IN THE PAST DAYS.”
Kerickson looked around at the kneeling people. He felt stupid to be the only one still standing, but decided he would feel even dumber kneeling to a holo. “You—look much more yourself,” he said finally.
“THANKS TO YOU.” She smiled, and it seemed to him that her flawless face was both ancient and ageless. “IT IS YOU WHOM I HAVE TO THANK FOR MY CITY. ARE YOU SURE THAT YOU WILL NOT STAY? THERE IS STILL SO MUCH THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE.”
“Someone else will do it for you,” he said. “In fact, probably even better than I could. It’s time for me to go.”
“AND LEAVE A JOB UNDONE?” The corners of her mouth quirked up. “THAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE YOU.”
“Oh,” he said gloomily, “I think it’s just like me.”
“WELL—” Minerva held her palm out and a small gray mouse appeared in the middle of it. “I SUPPOSE THAT EVEN A GODDESS CAN BE MISTAKEN.”
Kerickson watched in stupefied horror as she opened her mouth and popped the writhing mouse in. “But—”
With her little finger, Minerva delicately tucked the whirling tail into her mouth.
A muscle twitched underneath Kerickson’s right eye. Since the restoration of order, he had worked for hours to reset Minerva’s parameters, but obviously they were still off—very off.
Minerva folded her perfect, white fingers. “IS THERE NO WAY WE CAN PERSUADE YOU TO STAY?”
Amaelia reached out and took his cold hand between her two warm ones. “We need you—Arvid. Why don’t you stay until everything’s back to normal? Then you can take your time finding a new job.”
Another shivering, dark-eyed mouse appeared in the middle of Minerva’s hand. He eyed it glumly; if the Goddess of Wisdom and Civilized Life was still dining on live rodents, it could be no one’s fault but his. Maybe he wasn’t very good at his job, but he ought to at least stick around until he’d set things right.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll stay until everything is running properly again.”
A great cheer went up from the crowd, and Amaelia leaned against his shoulder so that her coppery hair brushed his face and the sweet fragrance of her perfume overwhelmed his senses.
“WELL DONE, MY HERO.” Minerva winked. “WELL DONE.”
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