Steppe

by Piers Anthony

  Meanwhile, the Game beckoned. The sun was high. It was noon, and the day was hot. He could relax, for all he had to do was stay alive and he would have many years' respite.

  Years? Suddenly he remembered another thing about the Game: its time was not the same as that of the galaxy.

  The Game timescale was accelerated. Every day here was equivalent to a full year in the historical world!

  So the theoretical life of a player from birth to a death of old age was in the neighborhood of seventy days.

  Most parts were much shorter, for they started at early maturity and often were terminated violently. Each Game hour was a historical fortnight, and each Game-minute six hours, and each Game-second six minutes.

  The Game sun did not move faster. Actually, these Galactics claimed the sun did not move at all, at least not the way it obviously did. They thought the sun stood still while the plains and seas and mountains whirled around it.

  This was yet another idiocy he would have to contemplate at leisure. For the moment he had to grasp the nature of the Day that was really a year.

  This was noon midsummer—and about twelve historical hours had passed in the two Minutes Alp had taken stock. Dusk would be the fall season and night would be winter. Spring would come at dawn. He had to find a place to stay before the snows came.

  That increased the other pressure on him. The dangers that had cheapened the value of the part would strike in hours or even minutes, rather than days, because of that acceleration of the time scale. And he had to make his political move within ten days—before his decade's fore-knowledge was outrun. Otherwise he would have no advantage over the other players.

  He was in a much stiffer exercise of his ingenuity than he had supposed. He couldn't do much, alone on the steppe. He had to get a horse and make contact with Game-Uigurs—soon. Every day he delayed was a full year wasted!

  Yet he had to waste a few minutes more. In Game-parlance, Minutes—to show their historical gravity. One day was twenty-four hours; one Day was a year. He had to formulate a strategy that would ensure his survival and bring him the greatest profit within ten days—Days. That meant achieving a position of leadership among men—

  and he had no immediate idea where to find them.

  There was something even more urgent than leadership, however. Alp found a good sandy place and scraped a small hole in the ground. Barely half a handspan down he encountered bedrock.

  Surprised, he excavated further and inspected it. The underlying material was rocklike in its hardness but was not actually rock. More metal, perhaps. Something manufactured by man or demon. So this was not real steppe.

  Well, why not? This was all the stage for the Game. Underneath were those multiple layers of Galactic civilization. He must never forget that none of it was genuine, however cleverly crafted.

  Meanwhile, there was his urgent business. This sand was shallow, but it would do. He squatted and attended to it, then carefully smoothed the sand over so there was no indication.

  It was the longest time, historically, such an act had ever taken him.

  Supposedly the Game steppe land was similar to the original geography. But not literally. The Game-steppe spanned the galaxy. This was a large canvas indeed, covering all the skies of the night, far too vast for him to comprehend fully at the moment. Smaller regions were mapped as planets—rather, planets represented cities and oases. Horses—he paused, fighting confusion as he integrated his two sets of experience—horses were space ships.

  Carts that spouted hot wind and flew from star to star.

  So this plain was no more literal than the hours of the Day. The whole thing was a mockup, perhaps intended to give him the feel of the Game—or to lull him into a disastrous complacency. The true stage was condensed in time and magnified in scale, and the visible plain was no more than the patch of soil covered by one fresh horse-dropping.

  Why should a new player be set apart like this, on foot and without provisions? Was it a handicap, a hurdle, something for him to prove himself against? If so, it was ridiculously feeble by native Uigur standards; Alp had known how to forage from the land since childhood. This land differed from his own, but he could eat grass if he had to, and if there were any wildlife at all—

  No—the isolation could be a measure of protection from exploitation by established players. Every new player represented competition or opportunity for the old; suppose there were those who laid in wait to dispatch or enslave the novice? That made sense; it was good nomad logic. The neighbors must be hostile, and this accounted for the cheapness of the part.

  Alp grinned in the way he had. He nocked another arrow with the skill that few Uigurs and no Chinese could match and sent it flying at a shrub on a hillock thirty meters distant. It struck a little beyond; it was sleeker and lighter than those he was familiar with, but its flight was true. He fired another, and this time scored directly.

  He might be a complete novice in the Galactic city, but he was only a partial novice here in the Game—and he could fight well. He doubted that the majority of players were really adept with their weapons. Affluence and ease tended to corrupt, and these Galactics had much of each.

  But the players had to interact! They had to travel from city to city—planet to planet—or remain forever encamped at one location. The true nomad did not reside alone without horse or cattle. He was part of a tribe, sharing its protection and obligation. It would be pointless to set a man down too far from such a tribe—but perhaps dangerous to place him where others would discover him too rapidly. Probably placement varied, making contact random—but still, it had to be near some locus of activity, or there would be no Game.

  So he had to find that locus, before it found him. And join it on his own terms. Even if he had to dispatch a few tribesmen first, to make his point.

  Where there were sedentary people or camping nomads, there was fire. Where there was fire there was smoke.

  Alp looked at the sky, carefully. It was clear. No clouds, no smoke.

  Of course this was the galactic year 2332 his new memory said, and the planet was governed by contemporary conventions. Pollution was a crime. So no horse dung, no wood fires. Therefore no smell or smoke. But—

  There it was! A faint streak of cloud, typical of—of the condensation pattern following a spaceship moving through atmosphere! The Galactic equivalent of smoke—or the dust raised by a running horse.

  The streak pointed to the south, assuming his brief survey of the sun's elevation had oriented him correctly.

  Therefore there was a stable there. But Alp checked the sky carefully for other signs before acting. Did many horsemen come to that oasis? Were there other places he might go, more profitably?

  He found no other indications. That one, already fading in the sky, would have to do. Had he not been alert, he would have missed it—as perhaps most players did. It was distressing being afoot, and it made him feel insecure and lonely for Surefoot. But he had ground to cover in a hurry, and he would do it.

  Alp approached the camp from the south, having skirted entirely around with inborn caution. There had been guards and at least one ambush, which confirmed his suspicion about the exploitation of new players. They had known he was coming, but they had not known his background, his life-time in the historical reality the Game only imitated.

  He could have killed those amateurs with ease, but he had chosen merely to avoid them.

  Neither tents nor horses were anything like the real ones. He had to depend on his new memory to make the connection at all. These were one-man spaceships: long, pointed cylinders lying flat on the ground. Near them the tents were set up: nylon material stretched taut over aluminum frames, quite unlike the true nomad gers, but serving a similar purpose.

  Alp moved in on the largest and neatest tent, certain this would belong to the chief of this party. It was dusk now, and the chill drafts of autumn were stirring; most players had sealed their tents for the winter's sleep. The camp guards were yawning: a
ctors, not Uigurs!

  Alp skulked in the shadows of the tent, alert to all camp activity as he studied the sealing mechanism. It was a strip of sticky tape that bound the flap securely unless lifted from one end.

  When no one was in sight, he stepped quickly and silently forward, lifted the strip, and opened the entrance.

  Warm air gushed out. He slid inside and resealed the flap. He was in!

  The tent was elegant inside, suggestive of the Khagan's pavilion. Certainly it was larger than any true ger Alp had known. Light glowed from the inner surface and from the stiff material covering the ground. There were several compartments, each sealed by one of the strips. Comfort for a large Uigur family!

  Alp made his way to the center room, where a man garbed as a Game-Uigur chieftain pored over a map.

  "Did you fetch him in alive?" the man asked, not looking up.

  "Yes," Alp said in Galactic.

  "Good enough! This has been an excellent stake-out. Does he have any talents we can use?"

  "He can foresee history."

  "Foresee—" The chief tapped his map, assimilating that. His body tensed, but he did not make a hostile move.

  He looked up. "You're not one of mine!"

  "Not yet," Alp said.

  "How did you get by my guards? Who are you?"

  "What guards?" Alp asked innocently.

  Now the chief's hand went for his sword, rapidly, as he flung himself out of his chair. He was strong and fast—

  but Alp's own blade gleamed first.

  They faced each other, weapons lifted. The bands of light were bright in the subdued illumination here. "You can't be the recruit player!" the chief said. "Not with a move like that. You're a pro."

  "I am both recruit and warrior," Alp said. "I could have killed you already—had I wished to."

  The chief looked at him a moment more, then sheathed his blade. "Yes, I believe that. You must have served with the Huns and Turks in prior parts, and kept in shape. Taken a loss and had to re-enter on the minimum.

  Battlefield casualty? Who are you now?"

  "Ko-lo the Uigur," Alp said, sheathing his own weapon but not relaxing his vigilance. He could outdraw the chief, but there could be other warriors in the tent.

  "And I am Uga the Uigur, chief of this tribe, such as it is. We're currently recruiting, as you know."

  Alp concealed his surprise. Uga—the man the Game Machine had questioned him about. Obviously that had not been random! Had the Machine been telling him something—or merely verifying his capacity for survival in Uga's tribe? Normally the Machine did not give assistance of any nature to individual players, unless this was required to achieve an established mark of history.

  This was not the real Uga, of course. Had an armed stranger come upon him in his ger, there would have been an immediate fight to the death. The original Uga was a lusty, powerful man, who would have been extremely difficult to overcome in swordplay.

  This Game-Uigur Uga was older, less proficient with hand weapons, but gifted with superior discretion. Just as well, for Alp had been quite prepared to eliminate him if necessary.

  Uga spoke again. "What's this ploy about foreseeing history?"

  Alp stepped up to the map. It was galactic in scale, and he could not immediately assimilate it. The lettering was in Galactic print—and he discovered to his chagrin that he was not literate in that language. For Game purposes he was no more educated than any other player, and Ko-lo's supposed literacy would be an arrow in his side.

  But naturally the education helmet would not bother with the written language. This was a useless specialization in a culture where machines animated every book and kept all records. The Galactics had been freed of the drudgery of childhood study, and only dedicated scholars became scribes.

  He would have to downplay that aspect of his part—and perhaps there would be advantage in concealing his Uigur-script literacy. Now he had to justify his approach to the map, for Uga was already looking at him quizzically.

  "The Chinese to the south and east are less docile every year," Alp said, guessing that this was the subject of the indecipherable map. "The Kirghiz to the north are growing stronger. Meanwhile the Khagan lies about with his wives in Karabalgasun, not even bothering to inspect the frontiers."

  Uga was not impressed by this political analysis. "Everybody knows that!"

  So he had guessed correctly! Uga had been poring over a political chart. "In just ten years the Kirghiz will renounce their vassalage, revolt, and invade Uigur territory. The empire will fall to the barbarian. There will be no help from the Chinese, who are overtired of Uigur dominance and secretly regard themselves as our superiors.

  Karabalgasun will be sacked, the Khagan slain, our people driven south before the savage."

  Uga considered. Prediction of the Khagan's death had perked him up. "Empires have fallen before, in Steppe.

  No doubt they will again. But I doubt that the rabble Kirghiz could prevail so readily over true Uigur forces, and certainly not so soon. Why, most of them are mercenaries in our cavalry."

  "That's right," Alp agreed. "They have learned disciplined warfare from us—without comprehending our restraints."

  Now Uga nodded. "You put a grave face on it. But assuming this is true, and they revolt in a decade—how is it that you know this?"

  "That is my secret," Alp said. "I have given you the outline; I also know the details. These are at your service."

  "Such information would be invaluable," Uga said musingly. "I could use it to achieve high office myself!" He paused. "Naturally your claim will be subject to specific proof."

  Alp showed his teeth. They had reached the bargaining stage.

  "And your price will not be small," Uga added.

  "A horse, a ger," Alp said. "Supplies. A manslave, and a woman." Alp did not feel up to remarrying so soon after his family tragedy: from respect to his lost wife he would stick to concubines for a decent interval. She, however she was, would appreciate the gesture; no new sons would pre-empt the place of the first.

  "Of course," Uga agreed. "These await you now. What else?"

  "Nothing else."

  Uga frowned. "I do not deal with unknown terms. What is your whole price—assuming you perform as claimed?"

  "If I perform as claimed, you will be graciously inclined, and you will be in a position to exercise that inclination. If I do not, you will have me assassinated. This is the Uigur way."

  "Perhaps. Unless you perform—and assassinate me the moment your foresight shows the move propitious."

  "I have never killed a Uigur," Alp said shortly.

  "Naturally not. You have just entered the Game as a Uigur. How many Huns did you kill—as a Hun?"

  Better to let the chief assume he was an experienced player. He was—but not in this particular Game! "I never killed my own kind. I never gave false loyalty. I never broke my oath."

  "A personal foible, then. You assume I practice assassination—but you do not."

  "You already have power over your tribe. You violate no oath when you eliminate the unfit. In your position, I might have to do the same."

  "In real life I could not afford to believe you," Uga said. "However, in the Game reincarnation is feasible, and I have sufficient assets to select new parts with discrimination. Do you understand me?"

  Alp understood well enough that this was a threat, but he had to sort through unfamiliar Galactic concepts before he grasped its nature. It took many points to enter the Game each time, and Uga had wealth in his Galactic identity. So he could re-enter immediately after being ejected... and seek vengeance for any betrayal. In this way the Game differed from life.

  "I am not governed by fear," Alp said. "Nothing but my oath binds me."

  "Every man feels fear at one time or another; it's an aspect of the instinct of survival."

  "Feels fear, yes; ruled by fear, no. If I killed you this time, I would kill you every time you returned. But it irritates me to debate nonsense."

>   Uga snapped his fingers, and a girl appeared with a wineskin. She could as easily have been a warrior.

  "Will you swear Uigur fealty to me?" Uga asked, lifting the skin and squirting a purple jet into his mouth. This was a historical, not a Galactic custom; obviously he had practiced.

  "Yes. So long as you live."

  Uga handed him the skin, and Alp drank expertly. The wine was strange but good.

  "A pro," Uga murmured again, watching him. "Just as if you'd spent your life drinking that way!" Then, after a pause: "And yours will not be the hand that kills me?"

  "Yes."

  "You lie."

  If the man thought Alp could not draw a weapon while drinking wine, he was mistaken. But Alp did not take offence. "Why?"

  "The lives and deaths of important characters are predetermined. The Machine must enforce history in all key matters. If Ko-lo killed Uga in Asia, Ko-lo will kill Uga in the Game. You cannot swear otherwise."

  "Not unless I foresee the event," Alp said, impressed by the chief's cunning. "Or unless Ko-lo is a free agent."

  Uga nodded. "Good point. But tell me—my men were scouting the plain to bring you in, after we picked up the impulse of a new player delivery. We make use of what we can obtain, and the weak or stupid soon become slaves.

  Doesn't that make you angry?"

  "It might make a weak or a stupid man angry."

  Uga laughed heartily "You must have real nomad blood in you! You have true Uigur pride, yet you can not be casually baited. And I guess you realize that the Machine is aware of our recruitment in this region and downgrades local entry fees accordingly. By taking you on voluntarily, I must grant you subchief status, for that is the rank your dress denotes." He gestured benignly. "Go familiarize yourself with your equipment. Here is the tent number. I will have an assignment for you later this winter."

  Chapter 6

  CARTOONS

  It was a good horse. The fuel tanks were full so that it would not need feeding until he rode it, and the reins were not reins but still simple enough so that he knew he could manage them. The little machine that was the steed's brain would take care of the complex processes of takeoff and navigation; he had merely to direct it. But he left it nameless, unable to bring himself to call it "Surefoot."