Piers Anthony: Steppe

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."

The ger was well appointed, though only half the size of Uga's. It had two compartments: one for him, the other for the servants. This was not quite the way it had been done historically, but he could adapt readily enough. It would take him more time to become accustomed to sleeping on a soft pallet with sheets, like some decadent prince...

His manslave and woman were kneeling on the floor, awaiting his notice. He checked the man first and found him not a man but a eunuch whose tongue had been cut. Excellent! That meant there would be no offense from that quarter. He wondered briefly how the Machine found people to play such parts, as a eunuch could not be restored after the Game. But immediately his new memory corrected him: modern science/magic could restore a eunuch, or convert a man to a woman and back. And straight menials were not parts, but jobs. Successful completion of such an assignment qualified a person for the minimum fee next time. It was one way impoverished yet ambitious people could enter the Game, and great numbers were eager to participate on this basis. So the mutilations were temporary, almost cosmetic; they could be repaired as readily as his hair had been. And there was the chance of a great future.

The girl was young, fairly pretty, full-breasted, and did not appear to be unduly intelligent. Uga certainly provided well!

Alp intended to verify the capabilities of both servants in due course. But at the moment he was hungry. His new memory told him these servants would provide food on request, but he was conditioned never to trust the preparations of strangers when he could avoid it. There should be a store of staples in the cold-box—

There was. But it was not his type of food. Most of it was so finely processed as to have little remaining character, and the rest was alien to his Uigur tastes.

But in hunger, one could not be unduly choosy. Alp lifted out several pseudosteaks and thawed the rigid masses by dunking them in water so that they expanded into something like horsemeat. He then took them out and flopped them several times in sand, shook them off, roasted them against the incandescent filament of the tent heater, and knocked them hard against his knee several times. Only then did they approximate his accustomed fare. But this was a good deal better than nothing!

Now if he could manage to sour some milk and form it into a tasty black curd...

But first he had to orient himself properly, so that he could give good service when the chief tested him. That meant reviewing the Game version of history. There would be differences...

Every ten days—Days, or years historically—the Game Machine presented a generalized summary of events. This was done by film and TV: the window with a living picture in it. Moving images of things that weren't really there. All the summaries to the Game to date were on file in the projector's data bank—its stomach—and could be played back for reconsideration and insight. The quest for comprehension of the trends of the Game was endless among players! It would be nine days before the next summary in 840, but since what he wanted was the early part he didn't have to wait. He had only to press this button...

The picture came on. It was not a true window, but a flat surface with an image inside, like the reflection on a polished blade. It was in full color and seemed real, except that it was mock: a cartoon.

It showed a large man, a steppe warrior but not a Uigur, riding a horse. A true cartoon horse, not a spaceship. The caricature man carried a bow and knife and sword, but none seemed to be of fine quality. He was—Alp studied the trappings with the knowledgeable eyes of a fighting nomad and historian—he was a Cimmerian, one of the ancient tribesmen of the western plains, redoubtable warriors but lacking the refinement of equipment and technique that the later Turks were to develop.

"This is Cimmerian," the image voice said unnecessarily. "He is a giant of Indo-European stock. Every so often he becomes restless or hungry, and then he rides down to the coast to annoy the dwarves there."

The picture showed Cimmerian galloping down to the coast of a great sea far to the south and east, in territory only vaguely familiar to Alp. The many little dwarves there took immediate alarm. Some stepped aside, and some tried to fight back, but none had much success against the terrible giant.

Alp stroked his thinly bearded chin. Was this the Game Machine's vaunted history? This ludicrous cartoon, like something a shaman might sketch on the ground? Or was some Galactic trying to make a fool of the recruit?

Alp snapped his fingers twice, as Uga had done. The woman appeared, responsive to his signal. "Have you watched this program before?" he asked her.

She looked about, confused. She thought he wanted her for that one purpose most men wanted beautiful and stupid women.