By Luca Nobleman
“Madam Centurion MXVII,” the construct intelligence within my gauntlet greets me with its musical, yet mechanical voice.
From my vantage on the precipice of Vox Emperii Inc.’s neon-glowing glass skyscraper, I can overlook nearly all of Rome. “Good evening, Antikythera Moda.”
The Antikythera warbles, and the rest of the message begins.
“Your new assignment resides in the Palisade District of 1965. The likelihood of criminality for the designated citizen reaches 99.99 percent. Predicted crimes include treason, murder, and espionage. Under Roman law, and by the power and authority of the Machina Providentia controlled by the Senate, I hereby provide you, Aelia Praetoria, with this warrant for the fatal demise of a predestined Christian zealot, female citizen, age seven.”
“Seven?” I whisper.
“The Oracles of Sibyl do not err,” the Antikythera Moda replies.
“It’s just…” I’ve never had to kill a child. She’s younger than my nephew.
“Why do you hesitate, Centurion Aelia?” the voice asks dryly. “Should we assign this to Titus Scaevola instead? Do you question your purpose?”
Not Titus. That bloodthirsty barbarian leaves dead innocents in his wake. “No, my liege.”
Though the voice is mechanical, the Senate itself commissioned the Oracle. So… I don’t question it.
“Thank you. The citizen’s source code is being sent now.”
A shift in my gauntlet indicates the source code has been uploaded, and wormhole activation will commence on my command.
“Good luck.” The construct’s voice fades.
I offer a prayer to Mars and take in my surroundings. High-rises crowd beside marble temples and statues of the gods. Rome has thrived thanks to my time jumping to kill dissidents deemed dangerous to Rome by the Oracles of Sybil. Those who would have changed the course of history. If our agents hadn’t traveled back and helped Justinian I reunite ancient Rome, we may never have developed our current systems of computing, flight, artificial intelligence, and time travel. Or would we?
Traveling back twenty years would be nothing like witnessing the Gothic raids, civil wars, and the capture of an emperor. So why am I so apprehensive? This is but another assignment ensuring the perpetuation of our great empire.
I activate the wormhole.
The world shimmers, then solidifies once more.
I take the elevator down and head for the Palisade District, following the glowing beacon of source code in my helmet. Twenty-two years isn’t long enough to change much. Only a few wine bars have vanished.
A few passersby dare glance at me. Whispers of “Centurion” cross their lips.
When I finally reach the district, a wave of nostalgia hits me like an over-aged, spiced wine.
I used to visit this part of the district in my youth. My father, a senator, had taken an interest in the area. A known sect of pseudo-Christians congregated here, and my father hoped to win them over as a voting bloc.
My gut knots as I think of my father, who was taken by lung cancer a few years back. I still tremble at his last words. “Corruption is a choice. But so is integrity. Choose wisely, my love.”
Hoping for a chance to see him once again, I peer through the window of the election office he frequented.
I sigh. He’s there.
Inside, my father sits among strangers. His leathered skin creases along his eyes as he smiles. Those same eyes that smiled at me as I mischievously slipped my peas into my milk, thinking my mother wouldn’t be the wiser.
A robed man anoints my father’s forehead and offers a prayer. The group bows, then embraces.
I frown. I don’t remember my father being the religious type.
A sudden burst of energy blows past me and scrambles into the office—a child.
“Daddy, daddy,” she says through a laugh, “you have to see these puppies Julius has!”
The child is me.
My gauntlet pings furiously. “Source code detected. Proceed with caution.”
I turn, holding up my wrist to the crowd of people surging through the streets—the ping quiets.
I cock my head and turn back toward the office, where my past self and my father stand. The gauntlet pings louder.
How old am I at this time? At least seven, I figure.
Realization settles over me, and my heart falls into the pit of my stomach. The words of the construct echo in my ears, “I hereby provide you, Aelia Praetoria, with this warrant for the fatal demise of a predestined Christian zealot, female citizen…”
I turn to leave. Something has to be wrong. I’m no zealot. I am loyal to the Empire. “Why send me to kill myself?” I whisper.
“They didn’t send you,” calls a familiar voice. “They sent me.”
I turn.
Another Centurion stands in the shadows of the alleyway, holding his vibroblade. Titus Scaevola.
“Why would they send us both?” My head spins.
“To ensure I kill both of you. Your past”—he points at the child in the office—“and your present.” He lunges.
I jump back, activating my vibroblade.
We trade blows in the alley. He slices my arm, forcing my sword from my grasp. I roll aside, draw my knife, and drive it into his neck.
He collapses.
I grab his collar, tears welling. “Who sent you?”
His words die in a gargle of blood.
Panting from the fight, I slip his gauntlet off his wrist.
His source code matches mine. “Good evening, Antikythera Moda.” I trigger his module. “Target destroyed.”
“Affirmative,” it chimes. “Data logged. End.”
I hobble out of the alley and watch as my younger self and father hold hands while crossing the street.
He stops, leans over, and kisses her head. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy,” I whisper back.
His words echo through my mind.
Corruption is a choice. But so is integrity.
I look down at Titus’s gauntlet.
Tonight, someone had chosen corruption… and I intend to learn who.
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