Steppe

  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.

  "This," he said, indicating the screen.

  "Master, I have," she answered uncertainly.

  Cimmerian was now beating up a dwarf named Greek. Greek was partly civilized but retained some fighting spirit. Still, he was no match for the steppe giant.

  "Is this the usual presentation? Comic figures?"

  She remained perplexed. "Yes, Master."

  "And from this players are expected to judge the course of the Game?"

  "Surely you know this is true, Master!"

  Alp watched the screen again. Greek had given up the unequal struggle and taken to his ships, splitting into several tinier dwarves in the process. Each subdwarf tried to find a new home, but the more civilized dwarves resident around the little sea were not eager hosts. There was a wave of bitter fighting. One subdwarf took over the island marked Crete which, a verbal footnote explained, had recently suffered a terrible calamity that stunned its own civilized dwarf and rendered him helpless by also sinking his ship. In a few days that subdwarf took the name of Philistine and raided the fertile riverland of Egypt, but he was driven off by the resident dwarf. Then he managed to land on the coast marked Syria, where he shoved aside the dwarflings Canaan and Israel.

  "This is no history of Steppe!" Alp complained. "Who cares about the bickering of the runts of the distant coast?"

  The woman shook her head, unable to clarify the matter. Alp realized he should have questioned the eunuch instead; a man, even a partial man, should comprehend the concerns of men.

  "Your former master—he watched this?"

  "All of them watched," she said.

  "All the programs?"

  "All my masters."

  "What happened to them?"

  "They were turned off after—"

  "I meant the masters, not the programs!"

  "Some were in other parts," she said.

  Other parts. So women also went from part to part through the Game and remembered past experience. No doubt this generous-bodied, scant-minded female, because of her inherent limitations, failed to rise above the minimum level. "Your last master. The Uigur." For she must have had a master in this part; menials were not set up to serve each other.

  "He annoyed Chief Uga."

  So Uga did eliminate opposition! Obviously he had the qualities necessary to maintain his office. It was treason for a member of a tribe to plot against the chief, but proper for the chief to keep strict discipline. Alp would not have cared to serve a weak man.

  Alp had been trying to determine the extent the cartoon summaries had assisted individual players to achieve perspective. Not much, he judged. And no wonder, if they bore no closer relation to true Steppe history than this!

  About all he had accomplished was to verify that this was the official presentation... and that Uga tolerated no impertinence from tribesmen.

  "All right," he said.

  She began to remove her clothing.

  "No," he said, annoyed again by her density. She would have been ideal—if he had not needed to learn anything. "That—later. Now—I want to watch the program."

  She waited.

  He realized that even dismissal had to be specific. "Go take a nap."

  She departed submissively.

  It was amazing how circumstance changed taste! Had he known before he fell into
the gorge that he would have access to such a woman, he would have assumed she was the reward of heaven. Now what he really wanted was a smart woman, even if she were shaped like a dead pine tree. He returned to the cartoon.

  One Greek subdwarf, or possibly a related dwarf from an adjacent territory—it was hard to tell them apart, and hardly seemed important—was named Phrygia. He traveled by land, only crossing the strait from Greek ground to the land of Anatolia. That was the territory of the civilized giant Hittite, a formidable ancient warrior.

  But Hittite had grown flabby in his centuries of dominance and had also suffered at the hands of the Steppe giant Cimmerian. For almost a thousand Days Hittite had reigned virtually unchallenged; now he was old and ill, and so the thrust of the aggressive dwarf Phrygia was enough to break him up entirely. The consequence of this breakup, said the cartoon voice, was severe.

  Alp leaned forward, becoming interested. He had read of Hittite in the translated manuscripts and knew that that giant had been important to the later events of the Steppe. Maybe this cartoon was relevant after all!

  There was now a closeup of Hittite. "Hittite was an iron worker," the narrative voice explained. "He knew how to make swords and spears of iron when others did not, and he kept his process secret. That was the reason for his great strength in battle. But when he was beaten, all the dwarves and giants began to learn how to use iron, and that changed things in both Steppe and the bordering civilized world. An iron weapon is superior to a bronze one, because it is so much harder and sharper. Even a dwarf with iron technology is strong enough to humble a giant with bronze—in many cases.

  "When the knowledge of ironworking spread over the known world, the whole community of giants and dwarves was shaken up. Some giants were reduced to dwarves, and some dwarves grew into giants, and they all quarreled and fought endlessly. This, then, was the root significance of Cimmerian's push against Greek: the spread of iron technology and the consequent reordering of ancient powers."

  Alp turned it off. He had not lost interest; in fact he had found the cartoon most illuminating after all, and he needed time to think about it before assimilating more. Of course iron was important; all the warriors of Steppe used iron weapons, and the skilled technicians and smiths of the mountain regions were virtually immune from attack, no matter which nation controlled the empire. Alp had not realized that old Cimmerian had been responsible, however deviously, for the world's acquisition of this blessing.

  The cartoons looked foolish but were not. The magic brain of the Game Machine was behind them, its potency manifesting like the bright sun veiled by clouds. The pictures gave only cursory details on the political situation but did bring out the important fundamental points. The problem was to relate that information to current events in the Game, so as to know better than rival players how to improve one's own position.

  Alp had prevailed over the four Kirghiz in part because of his superior horse and bow: that was a similar principle. In the Game there were many other improvements in weaponry; if he failed to appreciate their nature, he would lose. So already he had profited from the cartoon insight!

  Better to absorb Game history in easy stages, so that he would not become confused and misread it. He could not afford to make any serious mistake! He had ten Days to make good; while that was not much time, he could spare a couple to assimilate the past properly. His own prior knowledge of history would simplify the task.

  Alp snapped his fingers twice. The girl reappeared, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Now," he said, indicating her clothing.

  She was voluptuous and tractable, so it went well enough. Then: "Hey!" she cried, confused.

  Alp paused. "What is the matter, girl?"

  "What are you trying to do?"

  "If it isn't yet obvious, girl, it soon will be. Silence, now."

  She obeyed, but it was apparent that she was unfamiliar with his technique. She was vaguely resistive despite his skill. Another Galactic anomaly: their women were unversed in the refinements of pleasure!

  First the loss of literacy, now this. How much else had mankind forgotten in the past fifteen centuries?

  After the girl left, bemused but educated, Alp checked the weapons he had set aside. This was a conditioned reflex with him. They were in order, except for one item: his marked sword had been exchanged for another. Uga's doing, obviously; probably the eunuch had been instructed to do it at the first opportunity. But why?

  He tested the new sword and found it identical to the original. It was not a defective weapon in any way that he could tell.

  Interesting. He marked it with another Uigur-script identification so that he could differentiate it from the first.

  He would keep this little riddle in mind—and watch his weapons more carefully hereafter.

  At night—ten o'clock in the new hour scale, the month of December in the Christian calendar—Uga summoned Alp to a private conference. That meant another person-to-person meeting, not a picture-screen interview. That also made it easier for Alp to relate, for he did not fully trust these magical communicators.

  Uga was alone. "Are the facilities satisfactory?" he inquired.

  Obviously he knew. Why had he taken Alp's sword? "Yes."

  "Are you aware that I am not in special favor with the Khagan?"

  "What intelligent Uigur is?"

  "A clever rejoinder," Uga said dryly. "But simple answers suffice. Because I am out of favor, I am assigned few worthy players from above. I must raid recruits instead. That is a disadvantage, for there can be resentment."

  Alp nodded.

  "The Khagan himself is not in special favor with the T'ang emperor of China, despite all the Chinese protestations to the contrary. It is in my mind that there may be significant changes soon, and I should prefer to place myself advantageously, if you understand."

  Alp merely nodded again.

  "Does your ability to foresee history cover this aspect?"

  "In part," Alp said. "When the Khagan dies your position in the Uigur hierarchy will be enhanced. But the Uigur empire will then be no more than a kingdom."

  "All very well," Uga said. "But that will be a decade in the proving. I require more immediate information."

  "I shall answer all questions as directly as I can."

  "I don't want shamans' riddles!"

  "Who does?" Alp answered, and that was so like the way of the shaman that they both had to laugh.

  "Let's try just a Day or two ahead. I have a number of nobles in my service. Can you predict how each will act?

  "

  This was difficult, for Alp had had little direct association with Uga's group in life and did not know all his nobles. Also, the news desired was eight to ten years old: a stiff test of memory, when so much had happened since.

  Finally, he had no assurance that the actions of minor characters in the Game would be identical to those of history; the Game was only a Machine-governed reconstruction, subject to many minor distortions.

  "I am not sure. Some I should know."

  "Intriguing limits to your powers," Uga remarked, not intrigued.

  "I am better on general events. There are so many people."

  "Consider Qutli."

  Alp shook his head. This was just like the Game Machine's interrogation! "I know no noble of that name."

  "Bilgo."

  "Him I recognize. He was executed in—why, you killed him!"

  "By no means," Uga said. "He is alive and well, a most important member of my retinue."

  "Not for long! He plots against you, unsuccessfully. Perhaps you have not yet discovered this—but you will."

  "You charge him with treason?"

  Alp considered how to put it. "You asked me what I knew about certain men. The first you named is a blank, but if this Bilgo is the same one I remember—"

  "Try Pei-li."

  Alp pondered. "Him too I recognize. A formidable and loyal warrior and scholar. He will give you excellent service for many years."

  "No
w me."

  "You?" Alp was surprised. "I do know your future, to a certain extent. But how could you believe—?"

  "Where do you see me next year?"

  Alp thought, putting together the events of the past, when he was a growing lad. Where had the real Uga been?

  "You will travel to China in 842 and not return for a year. The Khagan sends you on a mission to call on the T'ang emperor, who does not receive you kindly. There is some fighting, and after that you hate the Chinese implacably."

  "I do not hate the Chinese," Uga objected.

  "You will, two Days from now. I think the Khagan conspired with the Emperor to betray you, making it seem an accident. But I am not sure. Politics are devious."

  Uga sat silent for several minutes—a very long time, in terms of the Game. His eyes focused absently on Alp's sheathed sword. That sword...

  "I have told you the truth as I know it," Alp said at last, fearing that he had in some way offended the man.

  "The truth is seldom kind."

  "Kinder than lies," Uga said. "Now I shall tell you some truth. There is no Qutli; I made up that name to trap you. Had you given a fortune for him I would have deemed you a charlatan. Bilgo is indeed plotting treason; I learned of it recently but have allowed him to continue until I am able to determine all his accomplices. I shall surely execute him soon—and I have told no one of my intent. Not even Bilgo knows that I know—and if you were with him, you would not have exposed him as you have. Pei-li I trust implicitly; he and I were boys together in life, and he has saved my life in past parts in the Game. He keeps my records, as he is literate. As for my journey to China—I have no orders yet. We shall wait upon it. And you are either a very shrewd guesser, or—"

  "It's memory, not guessing," Alp said. "But memory is still imperfect, and I can make mistakes."

  "Yes. So when the Khagan sends me to China, you will accompany me."

  A sensible precaution! "As you wish. But you should know: even if my memory is accurate, my information may not conform precisely to the actions of the Game."