The Imperium Game (5 page)

“Kerickson, Arvid G.,” the monitor said “Game status revoked.”

Coming up behind him, Jeppers inserted his own bracelet into the device.

“Jeppers, Jebediah P. Game status: Management.”

“Allow this man to leave,” Jeppers said stonily.

In answer, the lock unsealed with a hiss, then opened, giving Kerickson his first glimpse of outside sunlight in . . . how long? He found he couldn’t remember the last time that he had visited the real world.

“Stop gawking!” Jeppers said behind his back.

Ducking his head, Kerickson stepped into the outside and took a deep breath. The lock clanged shut behind him as he shaded his eyes. Then he saw the gleaming form of a police robot.

“Arvid Gerald Kerickson,” it intoned flatly, “you will accompany this unit to the station for further interrogation regarding the murder of Alan J. Wexsted.”

A cold, stinging breeze was blowing out of the northwest; he realized that he wasn’t dressed for this weather. Shivering, be studied the police robot. “And if I refuse?”

“You will be arrested.”

* * *

It was a good-sized villa, but in Amaelia’s opinion it didn’t hold a fig to the Imperial Palace, where her father and that witch Demea had lived after cashing in
her
experience points to suborn the Praetorian Guard. Amaelia wandered the tiled halls forlornly. The place was clean enough, but smelled musty and unused, and every time she found an outside door, it was securely locked.

Of course, she was a slave now, and after that little misunderstanding down at the Baths, that was only to be expected. Still . . . she hadn’t done anything improper with those boys—just waited for her father, and then, when he never came, went back to the Temple.

The whole situation seemed so unfair. One day you were not only Imperial offspring, but a Vestal Virgin, supposedly esteemed above all other maidens in the city—sacred, actually—and then, just because of one misunderstanding, you were busted down to slave. Hadn’t the Game computer ever heard of second chances?

The wind out in the garden was cold and biting, so she stayed inside the enclosing house field and walked along just on the other side so that she could watch the gray-brown sparrows fluttering around the dead bushes. At least they were moving, which was more than she could say for anything else in this peculiar house. Apart from Quintus Gracchus, captain of her father’s guard, who had fetched her here from the Delos Slave Market, she hadn’t seen a single living soul. No doubt her father was hiding her away to avoid the shame of her disgrace.

Spotting another door at the end of the colonnade, she decided to try it. The gods helped those who helped themselves, as the old saying went—although in all the time that she’d been shut up as a Vestal Virgin, she had to admit that she’d never noticed Vesta helping anyone.

The knob turned easily in her hand, and she entered a shadowed room whose only illumination came from a bank of blue rectangles along one wall. Entranced, she approached them and put a wondering finger to one’s slick plas outline. Modern technology . . . She’d spent the last fifteen of her twenty years here in the Game. It had been so long since she’d seen anything like a viddie or a tri-dee, she’d almost forgotten what they looked like.

“WHAT?” said a deep male voice. “WHAT IS IT?”

“IT’S A CHILD, YOU OLD FOOL,” answered a self-assured female voice. “CERTAINLY YOU’VE SEEN ONE BEFORE.”

Amaelia’s heart hammered against her chest as her eyes darted wildly around the dimly lit room. “Who’s there?”

“OF COURSE I KNOW WHAT A CHILD IS. I MEANT, WHAT IS IT DOING HERE?”

“WELL, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SO HIGH AND MIGHTY AND ABOVE THE REST OF US, I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KNOW EVERYTHING.”

“OBVIOUSLY IT’S NOT A PLAYER. QUINTUS WOULD NEVER LET ANOTHER PLAYER INTO HIS INTERFACE.”

Interface? Amaelia’s eyes went back to the rectangles again—
screens,
she remembered now, they were called screens. Could this be the fabled Interface, where the entire Game was coordinated? Like everyone else, she’d heard of it, but had never been there. It was against the rules for a player to enter it. As far as she’d heard, no one even knew where it was.

“NOW LOOK, YOU’VE TERRIFIED IT. SEE HOW IT’S SHAKING?”

“I’m not shaking,” Amaelia said

“AH, IT’S FEMALE,” the male voice said. “THAT EXPLAINS IT.”

“TRUST YOU TO NOTICE THAT, YOU RANDY OLD BULL. PUT ONE FINGER ON THAT CHILD’S BODY AND.—”

“SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!” a third voice broke in, also female. “YOU’RE GIVING ME A HEADACHE!”

“YOU HAVEN’T GOT A HEAD,” the first voice said.

“THEN YOU’RE MAKING ME FEEL AS IF I HAD A HEADACHE. WHY DON’T YOU CONTINUE THIS ETERNAL BICKERING ON ANOTHER DIRECTORY SO I CAN THINK IN PEACE?”

The voices, all three of them, were definitely coming from the blue screens. Touching the slick surface again, Amaelia asked, “Who are you? How are you talking to me when I can’t see you?”

“HOW DOES ONE KNOW ANYTHING?” the male voice answered. “THEY’RE ALWAYS AT ME ABOUT THAT ONE.”

“Who is?” Amaelia eased into the depths of a large leather chair close to the screen bank and rested her elbows on the console.

“MEN. AND IT’S ALL SO SILLY. THEY GO ON AND ON ABOUT THE STRANGEST THINGS, LIKE ‘HOW DO I KNOW I’M REALLY HERE?’ AND ‘WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?’ WHEN THEY SHOULD BE ASKING ME ‘WHAT’S FOR DINNER?’ AND ‘WHO IS THAT YOUNG WOMAN I SAW YOU WITH LAST NIGHT?’ ”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THIS PLACE, GIRL?” the first female voice asked. “QUINTUS NEVER ALLOWS ANYONE IN HERE.”

“Quintus Gracchus?” Amaelia rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “That’s the overgrown toad who brought me here.”

“TOAD!” The masculine voice chuckled. “I LIKE THAT ONE!”

“HE DOES LOOK RATHER LIKE A TOAD.”

“WELL, PERSONALLY, I ALWAYS THOUGHT HE RESEMBLED A RAT,” the second female voice chimed in. “NOT THAT I SUPPOSE EITHER OF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.”

“A rat.” Amaelia tossed that image around in her mind. “A big, brown rat with yellow teeth.”

“WHAT AN INTELLIGENT GIRL,” the third voice said thoughtfully. “ARE YOU ENROLLED IN THE GAME? LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT YOUR GAME BRACELET.”

She held her bracelet before the screens.

“OH . . .” The male voice hesitated. “WELL, I DON’T LIKE THIS. SHE SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN PURCHASED BY QUINTUS AS A HOUSE SLAVE.”

“WHAT?” the second female voice demanded. “A CHARMING GIRL LIKE THIS—ENROLLED AS A MERE SLAVE? THAT’S DISGRACEFUL.”

Amaelia smiled. “Who are you?”

The blue screen to the left of her dissolved into the image of a great, fiercely-beaked eagle with glittering gold eyes and a lightning bolt clutched in its claws. “I AM JUPITER,” the male voice said, “THE MOST GLORIOUS, THE MOST GREAT, AND I’M SURE YOU KNOW ALL THE REST.”

The blue screen to her right faded into a wonderfully plumaged peacock of shimmering green. “I AM JUNO, PROTECTRESS OF MARRIAGE AND MARRIED WOMEN, INSPIRER OF GREAT POEMS AND HEROIC DEEDS AND ANYTHING ELSE THAT NEEDS TO GET DONE.”

“AND I AM VENUS.” The middle screen transformed into a large, spotlessly white dove clasping a sprig of green in its beak. “THE ONLY ONE WHO EVER HAS ANY FUN IN THIS PLACE.”

QUINTUS
Gracchus
strode briskly into the sun-dappled
colonnade, his black-haired head cocked at a commanding angle. Demea watched him out of the corner of her eye; she had to admit he was, as the quaint old saying went, a fine figure of a man. He had the perfect sort of face that whispered of expensive biosculpts, with a firm mouth, unwavering nose, and broad forehead. In fact, from tip to toe, he was rugged and bronzed, solid of leg, as piercing of eye as an eagle, looking in every way as a Roman ought—which was one reason why he had become Captain of the Praetorian Guard, although not the only one by far.

“If you’ve come to console me for my loss, you might as well save your breath.” Rearranging herself on the plush green velvet divan, Demea stared languidly up at the ceiling. “If you and your men had been the least bit competent, my darling Micio would still be here with us today.”

“No one regrets his demise more than I, my lady.” Gracchus’s voice had a low, growly quality that set her nerves to tingling. “But against my advice, he insisted on going off by himself at times. I warned him.” A fleeting grimace lifted his lips, revealing teeth as strong and white as a wolf’s.

He turned to Fulvia. “My Lady Antonius, I trust that you are in good health.”

“Tolerable, Quintus Gracchus,” Fulvia murmured, lowering her lashes, “although, as you might expect, I’m quite prostrate with grief at the loss of our beloved Emperor. It is kind of you to ask, though.”

“My heavens, Fulvia, don’t waste your time fawning on this wretch.” Demea narrowed her eyes. “All of Rome knows he has no taste for the, shall we say . . . fairer sex.” Then she sat up as Flina arrived with a tray of steaming sausages and other delicacies. “Isn’t that so, Gracchus?”

“It’s true that my duties leave me little time for affairs of the heart, lady.” His voice was stiffly disapproving. “Much as I might wish it otherwise.”

Did she detect a glimmer of interest in those steely gray eyes? Quickly calculating his possible accumulation of points, she wondered if, with the addition of her own points, he might have enough to ascend to the Palace in Micio’s place.

Then warmth rushed through her cheeks, spreading rapidly downward. What could she be thinking of? His role and Game background were so completely plebian and—her gaze strayed to the tanned, muscular legs standing there before her, solid as tree trunks. Well, stranger things had happened in the Imperium than the union of aristocrat and plebe.

Selecting a fat, sizzling sausage, she wrapped it in a fresh slice of bread. “Get to the point, Gracchus.”

“I came to report on the Lady Amaelia.”

Hearing that name so unexpectedly, she bit down too hard on the hot sausage and burned her tongue. Sputtering, she seized a glass of red wine and downed it in one gulp. “What—What about her?”

“Well, as you must know, the Emperor sent me to Delos to buy her in his name and return her to the Palace, but when I arrived, she had already been sold to an anonymous private party.” He shifted his weight, catching the sun on his bronze muscle plate and reflecting it into her eyes. “Although I have made efforts to trace the sale, I have so far been unsuccessful.”

“How tragic.” Laying aside the sausage, she selected a ripe black olive and bit it delicately in two. “I was so looking forward to sharing Micio’s estate with her.”

“I’ve come for your orders, lady.” He braced his massive shoulders. “Tell me your will in this matter, that I may direct my efforts.”

Demea tapped a manicured finger against her chin. Yes, in his own fashion, he was really quite handsome, much more pleasing to the eye—and certain other senses—than her late husband. And although he was currently too plebian to become Emperor . . .

She rolled an olive between her finger and thumb. There were no rules against having lovers; in fact, the ancient Romans had felt quite to the contrary, and it wasn’t as though she was even married anymore. “Your efforts have already been quite exemplary, Quintus Gracchus.” Tossing the flattened olive aside, she selected a crisp fried cherry tart and bit off one corner, dabbing at the juicy filling with her fingers. “I will oversee the rest of the investigation myself, although I might require your personal assistance from time to time.”

With a clank of armor, Gracchus sank to one knee and bowed his head, so close that Demea had to clasp her fingers together to keep them from wandering through those sinuous, dark curls.

“Anytime, day or night.” He gazed up, heart-stoppingly direct, into her eyes. “My lady has only to call.”

* * *

Kerickson gave up and entered the police airhopper. The robot heaved itself in behind and ignored him. Sitting by a window, he watched as they passed above areas of New York City that he had either forgotten or never seen. It was amazing how much could change in six years. A large patch of wilderness appeared below, and he saw an elephant wandering beside a small muddy lake. An elephant in the middle of New York. When had he stopped paying attention to the rest of the world? He pressed his face against the cool window plas.

All too soon, though, the ride was almost over. Just ahead he saw the massive downtown police station, rising up against the surrounding buildings like a gleaming gray windowless cube. The sheer size of it reminded him that he had been living in the diminished perspective of the Imperium for so long that he had forgotten how really big the outside was.

With a sigh, he held on to the utilitarian plas-covered seat in front of him as the airhopper made a rapid descent to the roof landing pad, then landed with a teeth-rattling thump. He rose and followed the morosely silent robot out into the winter sunshine, vainly pulling the collar of his too-thin shirt around his neck. I want to call a lawyer,” he said to its shiny black posterior. “That’s my right, isn’t it?”

“If you desire counsel, it is permitted,” it said without slowing. “We find, however, that most innocent humans do not feel the need.”

“But they always call a lawyer in the tri-dees.” Hurrying, he caught up and stared up into its red sensor eyes. “It’s only the stupid ones who don’t.”

“So you correlate manipulation of the law with intelligence.” The robot stopped in front of the gravity well that led down to the lower floors. “An unusual juxtaposition of concepts in this day and age.”

Kerickson stared past the robot’s body into the gravity well’s hazy green glow. Such modern devices hadn’t been allowed in the Game, and he hadn’t used one for longer than he could remember. The HabiTek board hadn’t even permitted anything but an old-fashioned elevator to run between levels down in Technical Services, while the most advanced such antigravity device actually allowed on the playing field had been the ancient, but still functional, concept of stairs.

Closing his eyes, he stepped into the emptiness of the shaft and felt the gravity field close around him. With a slight clank, the robot followed, floating just above his head as the two of them slowly descended. Kerickson sighed. It wasn’t really so bad. He was just going to have to get used to such things again.

“Exit on the first floor,” the robot said, then remained silent for the rest of the descent.

The first floor was staffed solely by pleasant-looking clerical models all dressed in the exact same cut of blue suit-alls. As a single unit they all looked up and tracked him with their eyes as he followed the police robot across the wide open space. The back of his neck began to itch.

“Well, well, if it’s not our boy, Kerickson,” said a booming voice from behind a corner desk. “Do you want to confess right away, or shall we waste a few pleasant moments trying to deceive one another?”

Kerickson recognized the bulbous nose of Detective Sergeant Arjack. “Confess to what?” he asked warily as the robot pointed to a utilitarian chair.

“Deception it is, then.” Arjack whipped out a second chair, turned it backward, and straddled it, gazing expectantly at him. Kerickson stared back.

“Now . . .” The Arjack nodded its head encouragingly. “Surely you know how this goes—first you tell me that you didn’t kill him, and then—”

“Didn’t kill who?” Kerickson interrupted.

“Whom—Alan Jayson Wexsted, also known as the Emperor, Micio Metullus—and then I say I don’t believe you, and we go on like that.” It bared large teeth in a humorless smile. “Useless, of course, like most human rituals, but I’m programmed to perform it whenever appropriate.”

“Oh.” Kerickson gazed down at the scuffed toes of his boots for a moment “But I didn’t kill him, although I do admit that his death might possibly have been my fault, because I couldn’t obtain any more Vestal Virgins on such short notice.”

“Vestal Virgins . . .” The Arjack shook its massive head. “I have to admit that’s a qualification of the term ‘virgin’ not currently in my data bank.”

“Virgins needed to tend the sacred fire in the Temple of Vesta.” Kerickson glanced around the room, then lowered his voice. “You know, young ladies who have never—” He winced. “You know.”

The Arjack grunted. “Human procreation—such an endlessly boring subject. Are we done trying to deceive each other yet?”

“I didn’t kill Micio Metullus.”

“And I’m not a robot.” It smiled another chilling smile. “Very well, Mr. Kerickson, you may go. We have enough physical readings on you now to make a fair assessment of how much of the truth you’re telling us. Just don’t leave town.”

“Go?” Kerickson stood up and felt the room tilt sideways. How long had it been since he’d slept or had anything to eat? “What about a lawyer?”

“Oh, get one, by all means.” Standing up. the robot turned away. “Waste your time and money. None of that is of the slightest interest to us.”

Time and money . . . Kerickson turned that over in his mind as the robot’s solid-looking back lumbered away from him. He had very little money put aside. Alline had always had such expensive—and demanding—tastes, even before she’d talked him into buying her into the Game. He’d taken out a loan to pay her enrollment, a loan that he hadn’t finished repaying to this day. Just how much money did a lawyer cost, anyway?

He straightened the rumpled collar of his shirt-all, then picked up his suitcase. He wasn’t going to find any answers standing around the police station with his mouth hanging open. He’d better arrange for some sort of room for the night and start calling lawyers.

* * *

Amaelia was dreaming of the Imperial Palace with its columns of carved marble and long, gleaming halls, dreaming that she ran down those echoing halls in sandalled feet, but no one responded to her calls—not a single servant, nor her snide stepmother, not even her remote, disinterested father.

“Hello!” She stared down the empty hallway. “Where is everybody?”

“Everybody . . . everybody . . .” the Palace said back to her.

What could have happened? She hadn’t been away at the temple that long, but nothing seemed the same—

“What in Hades are you doing in here!”

A hand of iron seized her shoulder and shook her until she bit her lip. The Palace halls broke into pieces and faded. Groggily, she forced her eyes open and blinked up into a ruggedly handsome, faintly familiar face. “What?”

Quintus Gracchus released her shoulder. “This location is off limits to the entire household!”

“I—” Rubbing her bruised shoulder, Amaelia looked around the room, still half asleep, but the screens displayed only a featureless blue again, betraying no trace of the visitors she had spoken with before. “I—The door was open. No one said that I couldn’t come in.”

His gray eyes raked the room. “I suppose there was no harm done, but you are never to come in here again.”

“What do you mean ‘again’?” Standing, she glared up into his tanned face. “Where’s my father? I want to go home now!”

“Yes, your father.” He studied her with flinty eyes. “It is time to speak of him. Perhaps you had better come out into the colonnade and sit down.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.” She raised her chin. “Especially not with you.”

“Let us both hope you change your mind about that.” The tone of his voice was grim. “This is an unfortunate situation for both of us—me, because I have spent a considerable sum acquiring you at your father’s request, money for which now I have no hope of being compensated, and you, because you are a slave whom it is not in anyone’s interest to free. I think you will find that your choices have become extremely limited. You will have to be very careful that you make the best of them.” Taking her by the arm, he hustled her out the door, then locked it behind them.

“How dare you touch me without my permission!” Even though the house field was still on, the sun had retreated behind heavy, ominous clouds and the air had grown chilly. Amaelia shivered, realizing that she had no more clothes than those on her back.

Gracchus’s mouth straightened into a thin, tight line. “You are only a slave now. I have every right to take any liberty I choose.”

“You said my father would free me!” Rubbing her hands over her arms, she stared angrily into his chiseled face. “I’m no more a slave than you are Emperor, and you’d better remember that!”

“On the contrary.” His voice had an even tone to it, as though she were nothing but the most minor of inconveniences. “Your circumstances have vastly changed since your little escapade at the Public Baths. You will find that you no longer have a father or any status at all, except for slave.”