The Player of Games

'Who's that?' Gurgeh asked Flere-Imsaho, humming and crackling unenthusiastically between his chair and the suit of armour by the wall.

'Who's who?'

'That apex with the… exoskeleton? Is that what you call it? Him.'

'That is Star Marshal Yomonul. In the last games he made a personal bet, with Nicosar's blessing, that he would go to prison for a Great Year if he lost. He lost, but he expected that Nicosar would use the imperial veto — which he can do, on wagers which aren't body-bets — because the Emperor wouldn't want to lose the services of one of his best commanders for six years. Nicosar did use the veto, but only to have Yomonul incarcerated in that device he's wearing, rather than shut away in a prison cell.

'The portable prison is proto-sentient; it has various independent sensors as well as conventional exoskeleton features such as a micropile and powered limbs. Its job is to leave Yomonul free to carry out his military duties, but otherwise to impose prison discipline on him. It will only let him eat a little of the simplest food, allows him no alcohol, keeps him to a strict regimen of exercise, will not allow him to take part in social activities — his presence here this evening must mark some sort of special dispensation by the Emperor — and won't let him copulate. In addition, he has to listen to sermons by a prison chaplain who visits him for two hours every ten days.'

'Poor guy. I see he has to stand, as well.'

'Well, one shouldn't try to outsmart the Emperor, I guess,' Flere-Imsaho said. 'But his sentence is almost over.'

'No time off for good behaviour?'

'The Imperial Penal Service does not deal in discounts. They do add time on if you behave badly, though.'

Gurgeh shook his head, looking at the distant prisoner in his private prison. 'It's a mean old Empire, isn't it, drone?'

'Mean enough…. But if it ever tries to fuck with the Culture it'll find out what mean really is.'

Gurgeh looked round in surprise at the machine. It floated, buzzing there, its bulky grey and brown casing looking hard and even sinister against the dull gleam of the empty suit of armour.

'My, we're in a combative mood this evening.'

'I am. You'd better be.'

'For the games? I'm ready.'

'Are you really going to take part in this piece of propaganda?'

'What piece of propaganda?'

'You know damn well; helping the Bureau to fake your own defeat. Pretending you've lost; giving interviews and lying.'

'Yes. Why not? It lets me play the game. They might try to stop me otherwise.'

'Kill you?'

Gurgeh shrugged. 'Disqualify me.'

'Is it worth so much to keep playing?'

'No,' Gurgeh lied. 'But telling a few white lies isn't much of a price, either.'

'Huh,' the machine said.

Gurgeh waited for it to say more, but it didn't. They left a little later. Gurgeh got up out of the chair and walked to the door, only remembering to turn and bow towards Nicosar after the drone prompted him.

His first game on Echronedal, the one he was officially to lose no matter what happened, was another ten game. This time there was no suggestion of anybody ganging up on him, and he was approached by four of the other players to form a side which would oppose the rest. This was the traditional way of playing ten games, though it was the first time Gurgeh had been directly involved, apart from being on the sharp end of other people's alliances.

So he found himself discussing strategy and tactics with a pair of Fleet admirals, a star general and an imperial minister in what the Bureau guaranteed was an electronically and optically sterile room in one wing of the castle. They spent three days talking over how they would play the game, then they swore before God, and Gurgeh gave his word, they would not break the agreement until the other five players had been defeated or they themselves were brought down. The lesser games ended with the sides about even. Gurgeh found there were advantages and disadvantages in playing as part of an ensemble. He did his best to adapt and play accordingly. More talks followed, then they joined battle on the Board of Origin.

Gurgeh enjoyed it. It added a lot to the game to play as part of a team; he felt genuinely warm towards the apices he played alongside. They came to each other's aid when they were in trouble, they trusted one another during massed attacks, and generally played as though their individual forces were really a single side. As people, he didn't find his comrades desperately engaging, but as playing partners he could not deny the emotion he felt for them, and experienced a growing sense of sadness — as the game progressed and they gradually beat back their opponents — that they would soon all be fighting each other.

When it came to it, and the last of the opposition had surrendered, much of what Gurgeh had felt before disappeared. He'd been at least partially tricked; he'd stuck to what he saw as the spirit of their agreement, while the others stuck to the letter. Nobody actually attacked until the last of the other team's pieces had been captured or taken over, but there was some subtle manoeuvring when it became clear they were going to win, playing for positions that would become more important when the team-agreement ended. Gurgeh missed this until it was almost too late, and when the second part of the game began he was by far the weakest of the five.

It also became obvious that the two admirals were, not surprisingly, cooperating unofficially against the others. Jointly the pair were stronger than the other three.

In a way Gurgeh's very weakness saved him; he played so that it was not worth taking him for a long time, letting the other four fight it out. Later he attacked the two admirals when they had grown strong enough to threaten a complete takeover, but were more vulnerable to his small force than to the greater powers of the general and the minister.

The game to-ed and fro-ed for a long time, but Gurgeh was gaining steadily, and eventually, though he was put out first of the five, he'd accumulated sufficient points to ensure he'd play on the next board. Three of the other original five-side had done so badly they had to resign from the match.

Gurgeh never really fully recovered from his mistake on the first board, and did badly on the Board of Form. It was starting to look as though the Empire would not need to lie about him being thrown out of the first game.

He still talked to the Limiting Factor, using Flere-Imsaho as a relay and the game- screen in his own room for the display.

He felt he'd adjusted to the higher gravity. Flere-Imsaho had to remind him it was a genofixed response; his bones were rapidly thickening and his musculature had expanded without waiting to be otherwise exercised.

'Hadn't you noticed you were getting more thick-set?' the drone said in exasperation, while Gurgeh studied his body in the room mirror.

Gurgeh shook his head. 'I did think I was eating rather a lot.'

'Very observant. I wonder what else you can do you don't know about. Didn't they teach you anything about your own biology?'

The man shrugged. 'I forgot.'

He adjusted, too, to the planet's short day-night cycle, adapting faster than anybody else, if the numerous complaints were anything to go by. Most people, the drone told him, were using drugs to bring themselves into line with the three-quarters standard day.

'Genofixing again?' Gurgeh asked at breakfast one morning.

'Yes. Of course.'

'I didn't know we could do all this.'

'Obviously not,' the drone said. 'Good grief, man; the Culture's been a spacefaring species for eleven thousand years; just because you've mostly settled down in idealised, tailor-made conditions doesn't mean you've lost the capacity for rapid adaptation. Strength in depth; redundancy; over-design. You know the Culture's philosophy.' Gurgeh frowned at the machine. He gestured to the walls, and then to his ear.

Flere-Imsaho wobbled from side to side; drone shrug.