Piers Anthony - Steppe

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: actors, 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?"