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, perhaps 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
