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Authors: K.D. Wentworth
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through a maze of exceedingly realistic rocks, muffling curses every time he stubbed his toe.
The Coliseum also loomed ahead, adjacent to the school. Its massive black outline stood out against the simulated night sky, but he saw no sign of Wilson yet. Well, he was probably a few minutes early. Flapping his freezing arms, he crunched across the sandy soil to the far end of the empty arena, then paced back again.
Down in the nearest street, he saw several members of the Praetorian Guard returning from the Subura, one of the Game’s less reputable districts, their steps unsteady and their voices boisterously loud.
He edged back into the shadows, wishing for his watch; of course, few wore such innovations in here where authenticity counted above everything else, and sundials didn’t fit well on the wrist. The soldiers stumbled past and their exuberant voices faded.
Kerickson surprised himself by wishing that he were down there with them. His six-month term as a guard when he had first been hired by HabiTek had been fun in a lot of ways. He missed the camaraderie he had known then, and even the drilling, the working out, the sense of physical fitness.
But none of that had been real, he told himself. The Imperium was just a giant playpen for people who had too much money and free time, both of which were problems he’d never had to worry about.
He took a deep lungful of the bitingly cold air, then exhaled. His breath hung mistily in the air. His feet had gone numb in the scanty scandals without socks or hosiery. Dammit, where was Wilson? Gritting his teeth, he took another turn around the edge of the Coliseum, wishing for a coldtorch or even a proper Roman one.
“Kerickson?” a hesitant voice asked.
“Over here!”
“Where?” Wilson’s voice demanded.
Orienting himself to the approaching footsteps, Kerickson turned around and made out a faint shape coming toward him. “Willyou hurry up! I’m about to freeze my—”
“Patience, my boy, patience.” Glancing over his shoulder, Wilson panted up the hill. “Sorry I’m late, but for a few minutes there I thought I was being followed.”
“Followed?” Taking Wilson by the arm, Kerickson pulled him deeper into the blackness of the arena’s shadow. “Who would be following you at this hour?”
“Probably no one. Everyone is restless since Micio died.” Wilson leaned back against the bricks. “You know how it is. Things won’t settle down until there’s a new Emperor.”
“Yeah, well, now that you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night, let’s quit wasting time. Just what did you think you found out?”
“Well, you know that little mix-up with Amaelia?” Wilson hesitated. “It was no accident. I searched Vesta’s temple and found a note sent to Amaelia Metullus signed by her father, telling her to meet him at the Public Baths. It was a setup.”
“So?” Kerickson tried to rub some feeling back into his arms. “That’s the whole point—everyone is trying to become Emperor. Micio was bound to have a whole stadiumful of political enemies.”
“Yes, but how many of them would be able to interfere with the god programs? It wasn’t a coincidence that Minerva was down on the very same day we had a fatal fire. Once I analyzed the stats, I found that her buffers were being randomized by a self-renewing program, guaranteed to keep her out of action until it was deleted.”
“But—” Kerickson looked around, then leaned in closer. “But no one has access to the Interface except you and me.”
“And HabiTek.” Wilson stared straight into his eyes. “It’s so obvious. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
Nearby in the velvet-black darkness, a sandalled foot slipped in the sandy soil. The two men glanced sharply at each other, then pressed back against the coldness of the arena’s granite wall.
“We can’t be seen together,” Wilson whispered. “I’ll have to meet you again tomorrow night.”
Kerickson caught his arm.
The Coliseum also loomed ahead, adjacent to the school. Its massive black outline stood out against the simulated night sky, but he saw no sign of Wilson yet. Well, he was probably a few minutes early. Flapping his freezing arms, he crunched across the sandy soil to the far end of the empty arena, then paced back again.
Down in the nearest street, he saw several members of the Praetorian Guard returning from the Subura, one of the Game’s less reputable districts, their steps unsteady and their voices boisterously loud.
He edged back into the shadows, wishing for his watch; of course, few wore such innovations in here where authenticity counted above everything else, and sundials didn’t fit well on the wrist. The soldiers stumbled past and their exuberant voices faded.
Kerickson surprised himself by wishing that he were down there with them. His six-month term as a guard when he had first been hired by HabiTek had been fun in a lot of ways. He missed the camaraderie he had known then, and even the drilling, the working out, the sense of physical fitness.
But none of that had been real, he told himself. The Imperium was just a giant playpen for people who had too much money and free time, both of which were problems he’d never had to worry about.
He took a deep lungful of the bitingly cold air, then exhaled. His breath hung mistily in the air. His feet had gone numb in the scanty scandals without socks or hosiery. Dammit, where was Wilson? Gritting his teeth, he took another turn around the edge of the Coliseum, wishing for a coldtorch or even a proper Roman one.
“Kerickson?” a hesitant voice asked.
“Over here!”
“Where?” Wilson’s voice demanded.
Orienting himself to the approaching footsteps, Kerickson turned around and made out a faint shape coming toward him. “Willyou hurry up! I’m about to freeze my—”
“Patience, my boy, patience.” Glancing over his shoulder, Wilson panted up the hill. “Sorry I’m late, but for a few minutes there I thought I was being followed.”
“Followed?” Taking Wilson by the arm, Kerickson pulled him deeper into the blackness of the arena’s shadow. “Who would be following you at this hour?”
“Probably no one. Everyone is restless since Micio died.” Wilson leaned back against the bricks. “You know how it is. Things won’t settle down until there’s a new Emperor.”
“Yeah, well, now that you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night, let’s quit wasting time. Just what did you think you found out?”
“Well, you know that little mix-up with Amaelia?” Wilson hesitated. “It was no accident. I searched Vesta’s temple and found a note sent to Amaelia Metullus signed by her father, telling her to meet him at the Public Baths. It was a setup.”
“So?” Kerickson tried to rub some feeling back into his arms. “That’s the whole point—everyone is trying to become Emperor. Micio was bound to have a whole stadiumful of political enemies.”
“Yes, but how many of them would be able to interfere with the god programs? It wasn’t a coincidence that Minerva was down on the very same day we had a fatal fire. Once I analyzed the stats, I found that her buffers were being randomized by a self-renewing program, guaranteed to keep her out of action until it was deleted.”
“But—” Kerickson looked around, then leaned in closer. “But no one has access to the Interface except you and me.”
“And HabiTek.” Wilson stared straight into his eyes. “It’s so obvious. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
Nearby in the velvet-black darkness, a sandalled foot slipped in the sandy soil. The two men glanced sharply at each other, then pressed back against the coldness of the arena’s granite wall.
“We can’t be seen together,” Wilson whispered. “I’ll have to meet you again tomorrow night.”
Kerickson caught his arm.
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