"You will remember it when the next part terminates," the Machine said. "Your average Daily Spread was 574-92. This means that on a typical day you were surveyed by 574 spectators, while 92 watched you at any given moment. A favorable Spectation ratio."
"Not two-and-a-half watching me all the time, but ninety-two," Alp said, musingly. "What was so interesting about me?"
"The manner in which you dealt with Uga at the outset. He was a player of some competence, yet you managed favorable terms. This alerted the viewers to your potential, and you picked up a number of fanatics."
"Fanatics? What are they?"
"Enthusiasts who follow a particular part exclusively, watching it for many hours a day. The number of such fans a given player accumulates is another indication of the depth of his popular appeal. Your total increased steadily to 105 by the time your part terminated."
"A hundred-and-five? But if only ninety-two were watching—"
"You still do not understand the basic mathematics. Even fans must sleep, if nothing else. Normally it requires four or five fans to maintain a steady figure of one. Your 105 fans constituted only 22 steady watchers, statistically.
The rest were partial fans and random viewers. Also, we are speaking of averages; the actual figures are variable—"
"That's enough," Alp said. "Mathematics is not my strong point. When was this 'peak' you mentioned? I mean, when in the Game?"
"Your peak spread of 1,029-395 was achieved during your dialogue with Kokachin; this fell off sharply when she left the Game."
"Why? What did they expect?" That episode still hurt; Alp had held himself aloof from emotional concerns of the male-female type but had been vulnerable to that childish innocence.
"Spectators are notably lascivious in their tastes."
"A nine-year-old girl? She would not be marriageable for three or four years."
"Many things happen in the course of the Games that would not be legitimate in normal society, though the Galactic is more liberal than that you have known."
Something about that statement alarmed him, so Alp smiled disarmingly. "Because they think of it as a primitive situation... and don't realize they're being watched..." Then something else occurred to him. "If people are watching all the time—you must be watching too. To put them in touch."
"The Game Machine necessarily keeps track of all players," it agreed.
"Then you know—" Alp halted. Did it know about the document?
"The Game Machine maintains a complete record."
"Then why didn't you stop—?"
"The Game Machine does not interfere with individual parts so long as they are played within specification and no complaints are lodged."
Which was one difference between Machine and man! "None of the spectators complained?"
"None. They appreciate illicit excitement of any type. Your spread had a secondary peak at the time you appear to be considering of 988-450—an unusual ratio."
Interesting the way the Machine never referred to itself as "I" or jumped to a conclusion. It seemed truly neutral. Meanwhile, Alp found he understood the ratio. It meant that about one of every two people who surveyed him in that period stayed to watch steadily, skipping meals and sleep if need be. Complain? Not if that meant the termination of their vicarious lawbreaking! He had known the type in life...
"But the police," he said. "Why didn't they catch me when they had the chance?"
"Cross references between citizens and players are not routinely provided by the Game Machine, as this is deemed a legal invasion of privacy. The police were not at that time aware of your identity."
Invasion of privacy! Galactics didn't seem to mind having their most intimate personal acts in the Game exposed to public view... yet balked at having their Galactic identities known. What a demonic set of values!
Alp shook his head. Neither Machine nor Galactic logic was his own—but he suspected that the Game Machine was tacitly collaborating as much as those spectators who had known he was breaking the rules, yet concealed that fact from the authorities. Why should the Machine assist him in such indirect yet effective manner?
He decided not to ask.
Chapter 13
TEMUJIN
Alp entered a minor Khitan part, reserving most of his credit for future emergencies. No sign of Khitan dominance appeared, and there were no characters named Jenghiz or Tata-tunga. He lost track of Uga and Pei-li; as the Machine had explained, cross-references were not routinely provided, and the scope of the Game was wide.
The role terminated in 890 with a small positive balance, bringing Alp's cumulative score to 758 points. He entered another Khitan part—but the Khitans remained unimportant, and when it ended in 915 he had taken a loss, reducing his total to only 321 points. Still it was the barbarian Kirghiz, not the Khitan, who controlled the old Uigur territory. The higher standard of living the Uigurs had sponsored was now regressing, and more barbarians were filling in. Despairingly, Alp invested once more in the Khitans, spending the last of his credit for a soldier's role: in war there could be quick promotion—or quicker death.
T'ang had had his day. He lost his head about Day 900 and was ill. But the small giant Khitan now expanded into the power-vacuum. After 920 he drove Kirghiz back into the northern range and kept expanding.
Alp, a general in the conquering Khitan army, retired from his part in 950 with 1514 points. Several following good Khitan parts brought his total to over 5,000 points. But where was Jenghiz?
Then the current Chinese giant, Sung, made a deal with the barbarian Jurchid, of the Tungus family of nomads, and together they destroyed Khitan about 1123.
The historic document had betrayed him: the Khitans had dominated Steppe for two centuries but had never produced an extraordinary conqueror. Civilized and soft, as the Uigurs had been, they fell to intrigue and barbarism.
Alp took a loss, and knew that Uga and Pei-li had suffered similarly.
Alp took two Sung parts, merely hanging on to his points while watching the situation. At length a new barbarian nomad began making motion: another Mongol.
The document had been genuine; Alp was sure of that. And the Game Machine was keeping history in line. Alp considered the situation again—and realized belatedly that though the Khitans were of the Mongol family, and that Jenghiz Qan was listed as a Mongol, he was not necessarily a Khitan. There were other, if minor, Mongol tribes in Steppe—and these were the same that were now joining the general stir to the north.
Should he take another safe Sung part—or gamble again among the nomads? His mind urged the safe course—
but his blood prevailed. Maybe he was misreading conditions—but this could be the situation he had been searching for all these centuries.
"Your choice of tribe?" the voice of the Game Machine inquired.
"Mongol," Alp said. "Chief level."
"Few parts of that specification are currently available," the Machine said. "If you will consider a chief in one of the related nations—Naiman, Kerayit, Markit—"
"No. Only Mongol."
"One thousand points entry fee."
"Subtract it from my account."
"As you wish." The Machine listed several Mongol chiefs for the Game year 1175. None were named Jenghiz.
Alp flexed his muscles restlessly. "I will wait," he said at last.
The booth became silent as the Machine's presence left. The Machine did not need to inform him that he had forfeited his entrance fee by declining all offerings. This was now a necessary expense. Alp still had a little over two thousand points. If the Jenghiz part did not open up soon, he would have to take something else. His nomad feel for power told him that this was his chance to land a really major part, and so he was gambling everything on that. He could wait up to five days before finally deciding; then he would have to take a part, or leave the Game entirely.
How was Uga doing? The two had met now and again in the course of the Khitan history, with Uga generally doing better because
of his ability to buy superior parts. Was Uga also now waiting in a booth for Jenghiz to appear?
Alp sat it out as long as he could bear—three days—then made a second application. Game time was now 1178.
As he entered the booth, he had a bright notion. "I should like to consider Mongol chiefs and Uigur scholars,"
he said.
The Machine accepted his fee and displayed a wide range of Uigur scholars. They were in small demand because of the prevailing illiteracy, so their entry fee was smaller—but he had to pay the full chief fee if he wanted to look at both. This was cheaper than paying two separate fees to check them one at a time, since he didn't really want a Uigur part.
There were over a hundred identities available. Alp checked each doggedly and paid close attention to each description. And suddenly he found it: Tata-tunga!
Now he was certain this was the age of Jenghiz Qan. Jenghiz and Tata-tunga were contemporaries. His heart pounding, he asked to see the Mongols.
They were now reduced to two; other players had snapped up the others, and new ones had not developed apace. Experienced Game players were quick to note new trends, and there was a lot of potential in the new Mongols should they ever become unified.
Neither was Jenghiz. "I will wait," Alp said again, regretfully. Had someone else already taken the part—or was it yet to come? If so, would it show within his time limit?
He waited one more day. His deadline, both in time and points, was near. This was it.
He applied the third time, in 1179, and paid his fee. Now there were two new parts—and neither was Jenghiz.
He had lost.
Faced with that fatal prospect, Alp had a sudden inspiration. Jenghiz could be a title, not a name! One of the other parts, correctly played, could become Jenghiz! That threw the whole thing open again!
The parts offered were Jamuqa and Temujin. Alp considered them carefully. The first was a man of the Jajirat tribe of the Mongols, barely fourteen years old but technically a chief. The second was even younger, twelve or thirteen, the son of a powerful chief who had just died, Yesugei. Unfortunately that chief had also had powerful enemies—who now were the enemies of the child. That did not augur well!
The older boy, Jamuqa, was obviously the better choice. But Alp had struggled along for several parts and learned that often the least likely prospect had the best actual potential. Why not gamble all the way?
No—he had to trust his judgment, though it might be flawed. He would start from the better base and work to make it become what—
"Deletion," the Machine said. 'The part of Jamuqa has just been taken. Will you consider the remaining one or go to another tribe?"
Alp sighed. Even as he dawdled here, other players in other booths were moving in, making faster decisions. "I will accept Temujin," he said with resignation.
Alp sat silently in his ger. Just a few minutes ago, Game time, his Game-father Yesugei had been treacherously poisoned at a banquet by the Tatars of the east. Now he was Temujin, barely thirteen years old, the nominal heir to the leadership of the Kiyat clan of the Mongols—already deserted by two-thirds of its membership. Who would trust the leadership of a mere boy?
And he was a boy. The Machine had applied makeup that made him seem youthful and slender, and the Machine had drawn away some of his manly strength. In a few days these handicaps would fade, and he would be himself again; but right now his resources were those of the age he represented. It was an amazing transformation, and not one he liked.
Temujin's mother, Oelun-eke, was an energetic woman. She was to have been the wife of a chief of the Markit, for she was beautiful; but Yesugei had abducted her on her nuptial night and married her himself. The Markit had been vengeance-minded for some time thereafter, and they were formidable fighters—but Yesugei had been too strong in his home region. He had assumed the chiefship not only of the minor Kiyat clan, but of the powerful Borjigin tribe of Mongols. As such, he had been a natural leader among all the Mongol clans and tribes. Now that he was dead, there could be renewed trouble from the Markit.
Meanwhile, Oelun's concern was for the safety of her children. She struggled valiantly to salvage what she could of her eldest son's heritage, carrying the banner of the nine yak-tails from one Kiyat family to another, pleading for their return. But it was useless. Only Munlik, the confidential adviser to Chief Yesugei and his wife, remained loyal. The Kiyat clan had been fragmented by the death of its leader—and how could a newly-orphaned child hope to bring it back together?
Alp had been in difficult situations before and had no intention of letting Temujin's potential go to waste. The boy, though young, had specifications that made him smart and strong—as smart and strong as Alp had been at that age, by no coincidence. If he could prove himself among the Mongols—and Alp's Turkish pride made him certain that he could!—many of the deserting tribesmen would remember their faltering loyalty and return. Temujin would not remain thirteen indefinitely; if he survived to full manhood, he could be physically and politically powerful.
The time to act was now. Theoretically he was overcome by grief for his father, so that it was his mother who had to rally the tribe—but that was not the aspect of his new part he cared to stress. Alp touched the button of the intercom. "Munlik!" he called.
There was a long pause, but finally the Mongol's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Temujin, my boy?"
"Yes chief! " Alp snapped. "Report to my ger at once for conference."
Munlik looked weary. He was an older man who might once have been physically strong; now his face was sallow and lined. He wore his dark hair in the Mongol tonsure, with a strip three fingers wide shaved from ear to ear and a crescent-shaped fringe covering his forehead to the eyebrows. The rest of his hair was gathered up and braided down the back, as was Alp's own. "Son, I have seven boys of my own to look out for, and no wife to tend them. The clan is done for. You'll survive longer if you accept reality and drop your pretensions."
Alp suppressed the sudden fury he felt at this insolence. Munlik's advice would have been well-taken—for an ordinary player. There was scant profit in taking a losing part too seriously. But Alp was driven by more than player success. This was his major chance to win the tremendous stake he needed to preserve his Galactic identity beyond the Game of Steppe. Failure meant the end—of everything. A long-lived but indifferent part was worthless; he would achieve greatness in the Game, or die—in life as in history. Let this sycophant Munlik beware!
"My father was chief," Alp said with all the even authority of his thirteen years. It no longer seemed as if he were animating a part; he really felt it! "I am his eldest son. The Kiyat clan is strong enough—if it only stays together."
"So your attractive mother tells me," Munlik said tolerantly.
That was no better. Oelun's beauty was the envy of lesser tribeswomen, and the boy Temujin was the first to know it. This bastard already had his eye on the fair widow! "You and I are going to keep it together," Alp said.
"You say you have a family of seven to look out for—do you think I don't? Five brothers, two sisters—and a mother."
Munlik studied him a moment. Alp had tacitly served notice that permission would not be forthcoming from the new head of the family for whatever designs the man might have on Oelun. Not unless he obeyed Temujin implicitly. "You leave me little choice," Munlik said sadly. "I must seek sanctuary with a functioning and hospitable tribe."
So now the man was threatening to desert him too, thinking Alp would have to capitulate. "Munlik, you swore to serve me as you did my father, when you sought me out among the Qongirat a few days ago!" Ten minutes ago, Game time—but it was the same.
"And so I do, Temujin, in the best fashion I know. When I spoke to you then, I had to put up a proper front before the Qongirat chief, whose pretty little daughter you so recently betrothed. But now I perceive that the situation of the Kiyat clan is hopeless, so I serve you by making you understand this at the outset." His voice became gentle:
the tone of one who knows best. "Do as I do, Temujin—enlist with an intact clan, for your own safety and that of your family. Perhaps the Qongirat—they should succor you for the sake of young Borte. Or go to Togrul the Kerayit, who owes your father a blood-debt. This course at least will offer you some protection from your many enemies."
"Enemies? Like the dour Markit?" Alp said contemptuously, though his older Uigur mind knew this was bravado. "They are far away!"
"I mean the Tays, lad: the Tayichiut clan. Chief Targhutai Kiriltug and his brother have laid claim to the chiefship of the entire Borjigin tribe, now that your father is dead. Targ means to kill you, and is even now assembling his warriors for that task. As long as you live, his claim is insecure, for that position is nominally yours now."
A valid warning. Targ had good reason to eliminate his young rival! But the boyish temper would not heed. "So you're running out!"
"Temujin, I would be doing you a fatal disservice if I encouraged you to stand and fight. Targ can mass ten thousand horse, and the best you can do now is two or three hundred."
"Then get out!" Alp shouted. "I have no use for cowards!"
Munlik did not deign to answer this slur. He was no coward, and Alp knew it; he was a cautious, pragmatic player who had held his part for a long time and was now taking the sensible course. Young Temujin's position was virtually hopeless.
The screen faded. Immediately Alp called his Mongol mother. The lovely, freshly-careworn face appeared, and he wondered momentarily who played that part. She was well cast!
"Munlik's pulling out," Alp said.
She sighed. "Temujin, I tried. But now we are alone. Are you sure it wouldn't be better to—"
"No! We'll get along on our own. We'll forage here in our home territory until..." He trailed off, but she understood him. Until he was a man.
But the tiny family group was not granted much respite. In a few Minutes a hostile fleet appeared in the sky, and the markings were Tay. Targ was coming to ensure the demise of his rival claimant to the chiefship of the larger Mongol tribe. Some five hundred ships.
Steppe Page 12
