Steppe

by Piers Anthony

  There was only one thing to do. Alp alerted his five brothers, packed his mother and sisters aboard three of their crafts, and took off. The six ships, representing all the remaining horses of the Kiyat clan, fled to the Kentei Mountains.

  The mountains of Kentei were stellar red giants whose huge gravity wells made rapid travel difficult. They were not extensive by Galactic standards, but they were suitably obscured by surrounding debris to make the vicinity an excellent hiding place.

  Targ's ships pursued for some distance. They could have caught some of the fugitives readily enough, but Targ preferred to tease his prey a little, a wolf tossing a live but crippled mouse in the air. Alp gritted his teeth with fury even though his double-loaded steeds desperately needed the respite Targ's sport provided.

  "Qasar," Alp said to his younger brother. "You're the best shot with the bow. Try to distract them."

  Qasar obediently decelerated and was lost to screen contact. The arrows fired by Targ's posse stopped passing so near, and that was a good sign. Qasar, only eleven, was already a master bowman. Even grown warriors did not make fun of his prowess... long. He had killer aim—and killer nerve.

  Alp, satisfied that they had lost their pursuit, established an orbit close to a large dim star and formed the three double-loaded horses into a cluster. They were short of supplies and their mounts were fatigued; this merged orbit would conserve fuel and make the drifting vessels almost impossible to spot. Targ would be looking for them on some depot planet, not in space!

  Alp left the younger boys with the women while he made a drive for one of those Game supply depots. Qasar was still out of touch somewhere in space, so Alp took his twelve-year-old half-brother Bekter to cover for him on that lightning raid. He had never gotten along well with this child of his father's concubine, but this was no time for quibbles.

  They were successful. They landed, loaded, and took off before Targ's guards realized who they were. In minutes they were back in the Kentei region of space. "Now cruise in easy," Alp warned. "They may be watching us, and we don't want to give away our hideout."

  "Cruise in yourself," Bekter said sharply. "This stuff'll last me long enough to make it to Naiman space!"

  His own brother had turned traitor already! Now Alp could not afford to trust him, for Bekter knew where the orbit was and might use that information to buy his own freedom if he were captured by Targ.

  "Qasar!" Alp snapped on the open channel. This would be audible to anyone else in nearby space, but this was an emergency.

  "Here!" Qasar replied, the scant time lag showing that he was not far off, fortunately. Communications were limited to lightspeed, even when the ships were traveling at light multiples; Alp didn't understand this but wasn't concerned. It was good to be back in touch with his stout brother—and he needed him now!

  "Bekter is stealing our supplies. You know what to do." Qasar didn't like Bekter either.

  "Now just a minute!" Bekter cried, alarmed. "It's no big deal! You can get more—"

  "And get cut down by Targ!" Qasar retorted angrily.

  Then Alp fired from one angle, and Qasar from another. Alp's arrow missed, but Qasar's hit. In a few seconds Bekter's ship went dead, and he was out of the Game.

  It was a brutal penalty—but betrayal of one's family was the ultimate nomad crime. Turk and Mongol agreed on that!

  Alp had no question about the loyalty of his full brothers, Qasar, Qachiun and Temuge. But his other half-brother, Belgutai—how could he be certain of him, after this? Alp couldn't eliminate the child without cause, and certainly hoped it would not be necessary. But Belgutai would have to be watched most carefully. Any slip would finish them all!

  Chapter 14

  FRIENDS

  In a few Hours they were low on supplies again, thanks to Bekter's defection. Single horses could not carry much, and Alp had not dared overload his own. Targ seemed to have given up active pursuit, however, probably assuming that Temujin had been washed out of the Game by now. Still, Alp was cautious. He went alone this time, and not to the same depot.

  And dropped right into an ambush. As he stepped from his mount bowmen appeared all around him. Resistance would have meant instant stunning. He had after all been outsmarted.

  Targ was a big coarse Mongol, gray-eyed like most of the true blood—sometimes called the league of gray-eyed men. He looked on Alp with affected contempt. Alp's eyes were gray enough, but his hair now had a reddish cast, suggesting Turk or even Indo-European ancestry. "So this is the mongrel stripling who pretends to be chief!"

  But his revenge for that impertinence could not be satisfied by mere elimination—and he, like many players, was hesitant to wipe out another part too directly outside of battle. If the Game Machine had not scheduled that part for termination, the attempt might be balked—costing the other party points. "Put him in the cangue!"

  They bound his hands and put the heavy pseudowood collar that was the cangue over his head. Thus weighted and confined, he was put on display as an object of ridicule before all the Mongol players who came to the depot.

  Alp knew that Targ would arrange a terminal accident for him soon—as soon as it could be attempted privately, without record, so as to conceal possible failure. Meanwhile, ridicule.

  This was the part he had hoped to convert into that of the presumed lord of the world: Jenghiz Qan! In less than a Day he had run into termination. Munlik had been right: he had been too ambitious and had only squandered his opportunity. A part that deviated too radically from the historical script was soon nullified.

  Soon the guards drifted away, for attention spans were short in the swiftly-changing events of the Game. Only one remained to watch the prisoner. Alp dived for him, cracking the heavy cangue into his head and knocking the man out in an unusual fashion: by hand. How would the Machine evaluate that?

  Alp staggered out onto the surface of the planet, seeking his horse. It was gone. In seconds Targ's men would be after him, and this time they would not hesitate to stun him.

  There was a large reservoir of water beside the station, kept fresh by growing green plants and selected fish. He jumped into it and submerged all but his head. The Tay warriors charged along the shore, thinking he had run on by.

  He wanted to conceal himself entirely, but the solid collar was buoyant, and of course he had to breathe. If anyone looked directly at him, here in the reeds...

  But Targ's men ran on, careless in their haste. Alp did not dare move, though the water was chill. The real Temujin would have been hardened to this sort of exploit, even as a boy—but Alp had grown just a bit soft in the course of his near-Year's participation in the Game. It had been almost three-hundred-and-fifty Days since the gorge! Civilization tended to corrupt manhood!

  Another group of Mongols came, walking slowly. Three men, two young. Not Targ's ilk, but from another clan.

  A chief and his two sons, by the look of them—probably at the depot coincidentally. Everyone came to one depot or another, at one time or another, for supplies. Would they help a Kiyat in trouble?

  The chief turned his head and looked directly at Alp. Their eyes met; then, without interrupting his conversation, the man turned away.

  The chief had seen him, that was certain—but had neither exclaimed in surprise nor sounded the alarm. But also he had not offered to help. Did that mean he understood—but was staying out of it? Helping neither side? Or that he was sympathetic, but afraid to commit himself in the presence of Targ's troops?

  The strange chief's ship was near. Alp watched the three go to it. No warriors were in sight. Soon the chief would mount his horse, and his sons theirs, and take off for their home parts. Alp scrambled out of the chill water and charged across the interval, banging his collar upon the chief's port.

  It opened quickly and a wide-eyed youth stood there. It was not, after all, the chief's ship, but that of one of his boys. Alp was lucky he hadn't misjudged worse!

  "What—?" the youth asked. He was younger than Alp, per
haps twelve.

  "I am Temujin—son of Yesugei—chief of the Kiyat clan. Targ means to kill me! I beg your help!"

  The boy hastened to fetch his father. "I am Sorqan-Shira, chief of the Sulda clan," the man said. "These are my sons, Chilaun whom you have just met and Chimbai." He looked nervously across the parking lot toward the depot building. "But this is none of our affair."

  "It is now!" Alp cried, ducking down behind the ship so as to be less conspicuous. "You must help me—or leave me to die! Targ means to usurp my Borjigin title..."

  Sorqan considered. "It is unwise to interfere with the schedules of the Game Machine—"

  "Sire!" Chilaun cried. "He came to me begging succor! How could I ever call myself a man if I allow this? We must at least get him out of that cangue!"

  Sorqan made his decision quickly once challenged, as befitted a Mongol chief shamed by his son. "Very well—

  we will free him and hide him from Targ. But no more than that. He must find his own way home. No man can say for certain what is in the mind of the Machine."

  Chilaun got a welder and carefully angled the beam to burn into the collar while Alp stayed absolutely still. It was nervous business, but the boy's hand was marvelously steady. He would make a good fighter! "I have heard of your case," Chilaun remarked as he worked. "I do not like Targ."

  Alp's neck was partially singed before the job was done, for there was no way to get the last of the cut made without touching; but he held steady and both cangue and manacles came off. Sorqan fed these into this ship's converter, destroying the evidence. But already Targ's men were passing from ship to ship in the lot, searching for the fugitive. The situation looked ugly, for the three Sulda clansmen could not hope to resist these troops.

  "Into the wagon!" Sorqan cried. "And make no outcry whatever happens, for the smoke of my own fire will die out forever if they discover you here!"

  Alp dived into their adjacent wagon: a ship designed for hauling supplies during long journeys. It was little more than a sealable shell that had to be hauled by regular horses, useless in battle. This one was filled with pseudowool for the nomad players' clothing, and the stuff was hot and scratchy on his soaking body.

  He lay rigid, completely buried in the infernal stuff. Even breathing was hazardous, for the dust made him inclined to sneeze. He heard mutterings and Sorqan's resentful objection; then a paralysis beam probed the hold, as of a sword being thrust randomly through, and one leg went numb.

  Had that blade touched a vital organ, he would have been finished then, to Targ's satisfaction. But Alp made no sound or motion.

  After the warriors were gone, the two boys pulled him out. Chilaun loaned him his own horse, together with what supplies the ship could accommodate. "Targ has humiliated us by this search," Chilaun said grimly. "One day when I am a man I shall have an accounting!"

  "Now get on home to your mother and brothers!" Sorqan said gruffly, relieved to be rid of him. But the test of the man was not in his words, and the measure of his two sons was not in their age.

  "I will remember this," Alp said simply. "When my circumstance improves, and when you need help, send Chilaun to me!"

  The orbit was vacant. Oelun-eke and her children were gone with their remaining ships. Alp knew she would not have deserted him. Had they been driven elsewhere by hunger—or had they been betrayed?

  Alp searched the Kentei region, broadcasting his identity on the band he had used to locate Qasar. The odds were that they were gone from the Game, raided and dispatched while he was prisoner—but though he might actually fare better without them, he could not simply write them off. There were other loyalties besides success.

  He found them at last, hungry, their horses exhausted and useless. They were in another orbit, ready to quit the Game themselves rather than seek help that could prejudice Temujin's own chances. "But why did you move?" Alp demanded.

  "My responsibility," Qasar said. "I feared you had been captured and that Targ's ships would come—"

  "You know I would never betray my family!" Alp exclaimed.

  Qasar shook his head, thinking it out. He was a fine archer but not bright otherwise. "That's what Belgutai said.

  He said you would return—that we should wait. But I thought they would trace us the same way they traced you—"

  "Let it drop," Alp said tiredly. So Belgutai had been loyal!

  After that things improved, marginally. The boys grew in size and cunning. Alp was amazed to see how even a few Hours made a difference, as the Machine conditioning faded and allowed the grown men to break free of the boyish cocoons. Qasar developed into a big, broad-shouldered man, and Alp's oldest sister became a buxom woman.

  Heartened by the maturing power of his little band, Alp left the sanctuary of the mountains on occasion to make his survival known to his former Kiyat clansmen, and formally demand the chieftain's tithe that was due him. He had little success, but that was not the main point. The idea was to let them know what their obligations were and keep reminding them of an increasingly viable alternative. The young man of fourteen was more formidable than the lad of thirteen... but not yet enough to reclaim his clan.

  Still, he acquired several more ships, until he had nine of his own: enough to mount every member of his party including the girls, with one to spare. Targ's warriors no longer prowled in the vicinity; it was too dangerous for small parties and not worth the effort of a large party. Besides, Targ had pretty well consolidated his claim on the Borjigin tribe, so Alp was less of a threat. Alp and Qasar were now able to restock openly at the depots, though they always kept one ship in orbit... just in case.

  When Temujin was fifteen, eight of their ships were stolen. They emerged from the supply complex to see them taking off, on slave-circuit to a group of Tay raiders. More mischief by Targ's men!

  Belgutai had the ninth horse in orbit. Quickly he landed—but his lone mount could not carry them all. "I'll go after them!" he volunteered.

  "You couldn't handle it," Qasar said. "I'll take your horse and go."

  "You'd have no chance either," Alp said. "I'll have to do it myself." He was not the best bowshot, but he was certainly the most cunning fighter of the family group, so this was reasonable. Without those horses they would be confined to the planet, prey to Targ's men.

  He left them at the depot, a precarious location but necessary for now. The chase was difficult, for the raiders were better fueled and provisioned than he. He was barely able to keep track of their traces. After fifteen Minutes he was afraid his horse would fail, forcing him to give up. Then he spied a strange ship.

  It was chancy but necessary. He hailed it on his screen. "I am Temujin, chief of the Kiyat. I seek no quarrel with you."

  "I am Borchu of the Arulat," the other replied immediately. His face on the screen seemed about Alp's own Game-age. "What do you wish?"

  Alp recognized the name: this was the son of another clan chief. This lad could help him—if he chose. "I need a fresh steed, quickly. I have little but promises to offer in return."

  Borchu considered. "I have heard the word of Yesugei was good. Not so, that of his enemies."

  So the Arulat would help! "Word-breaking is hideous in a ruler," Alp said sincerely. "Eight horses of mine have been stolen. Help me, and half are yours."

  "Good enough! I will ride with you."

  Borchu gave him a remount, and the two of them set out in fresh pursuit of the bandits. In another fifteen Minutes they caught up.

  The Tays had landed on another depot planet, satisfied that they had easily outrun the pursuit. How far could one lad get on a tired horse? The eight ships were parked in the lot, unguarded, while the thieves caroused inside.

  It was a simple matter to transfer the reins of the slave circuits and lead the eight away. Alp was reminded of the time, back in his very first part, when the T'ang Chinese had slipped the reins of the Uigur delegation's spare horses.

  But Targ's warriors were not entirely napping. In seconds half a dozen of
their ships were spaceborne and in hot pursuit. The Tay leader's steed was fresh and swift, and possessed a lariat: a ship-anchored cannon whose shells were magnetic, capable of latching on to a fleeing ship and nullifying its drive, making it easy prey for stunner or tractor beam. The range of the lariat was short—but the enemy was steadily gaining and would soon be near enough.

  "Lend me your bow," Borchu said to Temujin. "I'll drop back and shoot him down."

  This was a polite figurative way to put it; of course Borchu had his own. He was merely clearing his proposed course of action with his new friend.

  "The others might catch up and wound you," Alp said generously, for he rather liked this man's attitude. "I'll do it myself." He looped about, aimed, and loosed an arrow at the Tay horseman. It scored, and the ship went dead.

  The others reined in as they came up to it. Alp's talents were improving! The threat was over.

  "You're mighty handy with that bow!" Borchu said admiringly.

  "My brother Qasar is better."

  "Come and meet my father," Borchu urged. "I know he will like you!"

  "I have to get back to my family. My mother and brothers are dependent on me. Take your four horses and depart with my gratitude; without your help I would have had nothing."

  "I don't want the ships!" Borchu protested. "If I take what is yours, how could you call me comrade? Come home with me and tell your tale, and afterwards I shall ride with you and be your officer."

  Alp was deeply flattered by this unexpected offer and determined that Borchu should never in his life regret it.

  "You will be my general!" he exclaimed, and the bargain was struck.

  Chapter 15

  BORTE

  The three strong arms of Temujin, Qasar and Borchu, supported by the younger brothers and a dozen ships, made the nucleus of the Kiyat clan credible at last. The wandering clansmen began to drift back, and more of them now yielded tithes. Old Munlik himself returned. Alp did not like him but had to accept him—and the presence of the man's seven strong sons added considerably to the clan's power. No one laughed, now, at Alp's pretensions of leadership. The tide of his Mongol fortune had turned.