Split Infinity (22 page)

“The Oracle—“ he began. But she only kissed him again.

She wasn’t talking. Ah, well. The stubbornness of unicorns! She had other virtues. He kissed her back.

Next morning she gave him some pointers on the use of the rapier. Stile had used a sword before, as fencing was one of the aspects of the Game. But by an anomaly of circumstance he had practiced with the broadsword, not the rapier. This light, thin sword was strange to him—and if it were the kind of weapon commonly used in this world, he had better master it in a hurry.

Neysa was expert. Stile had supposed a unicorn would not care to have the weapon of an opponent so close to the tender eyes, ears, and nose—but the proximity of her organs of perception gave her marvelous coordination with her weapon. Stile soon learned he could thrust without fear for her; his point would never score. Even if it should happen to slip through her guard, what would it strike? The heavy bone of her forehead, buttressing the horn. It would take more of a thrust than a man like him could muster to penetrate that barrier.

No, he had to look out for himself. Neysa was better on the parry than on the lunge, for the merest twitch of her head moved the horn-tip several centimeters, but to make a forward thrust she had to put her whole body in motion. Thus she was best equipped for defense against a charging adversary, either allowing the other to impale himself on her firm point, or knocking aside his weapon. Stile, forced to attack, found himself disarmed repeatedly, her horn bearing instantly on his vulnerable chest. She could lunge, and with horrible power—but did not, when she fenced a friend. How could he match the speed and power of her natural horn?

But Stile was a quick study. Soon he did not try to oppose power with power. Instead he used the finesse he had developed with the broadsword, countering power with guile. Soon Neysa could no longer disarm him at will, and sometimes he caught her out of position and halted his point just shy of her soft long throat.
 
In a real match he could not hope to overcome her, but he was narrowing the gap.

But he was also getting tired. His throat felt sore, and his eyes got bleary. He could feel a flush on his face, yet he was shivering. Neysa made a feint—and he almost fell across her horn.

“Hostile magic!” he gasped. “I’m weak—“

Then he was unconscious.

Dreams came, replaying old memories ...

The weapon-program director stared down at him.
 
“You sure you want to get into swords, lad? They get pretty heavy.” He meant heavy for someone Stile’s size.

Again that burgeoning anger, that hopeless wrath instigated by the careless affronts of strangers. That de-termination to damn well prove he was not as small as they saw him. To prove it, most of all, to himself. “I need a sword. For the Game.”

“Ah, the Game.” The man squinted at him judiciously. “Maybe I’ve seen you there. Name?”

“Stile.” For a moment he hoped he had some compensating notoriety from the Game.

The man shook his head. “No, must have been someone else. A child star, I think.”

So Stile reminded this oaf of a child. It didn’t even occur to the program director that such a reference might be less than complimentary to a grown man. But it would be pointless to react openly—or covertly. Why couldn’t he just ignore what others thought, let their opinions flow from his back like idle water? Stile was good at the Game, but not that good. Not yet. He had a number of weaknesses to work on—and this was one.
 
“Maybe you’ll see me some time—with a sword.”

The director smiled condescendingly. “It is your privilege. What kind did you want?”

“The rapier.”

The man checked his list. “That class is filled. I can put you on the reserve list for next month.”

This was a disappointment. Stile had admired the finesse of the rapier, and felt that he could do well with it. “No, I have time available now.”

“The only class open today is the broadsword. I doubt you’d want that.”

Stile doubted it too. But he did not appreciate the director’s all-too-typical attitude. It was one thing to be looked down on; another to accept it with proper grace.
 
“I’ll take the broadsword.”

The man could not refuse him. Any serf was entitled to any training available, so long as he was employed and the training did not interfere with his assigned duties. “I don’t know if we have an instructor your size.”

Stile thought of going up against a giant for his first lesson. He did not relish that either. “Aren’t you supposed to have a full range of robots?”

The man checked. He was obviously placing difficulties in the way, trying to discourage what he felt would be a wasted effort. He could get a reprimand from his own employer if he placed a serf in an inappropriate class and an injury resulted. “Well, we do have one, but-“

“I’ll take that one,” Stile said firmly. This oaf was not going to balk him!

The director shrugged, smiling less than graciously.

“Room 21.”

Stile was startled. That happened to be his age.

Twenty-one. He had been a stable hand for a year, now.
 
Coincidence, surely. He thanked the director perfunctorily and went to room 21.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the instructor said, coming to life. “Please allow me to put this protective halter on you, so that no untoward accident can happen.” She held out the armored halter.

A female robot, programmed of course for a woman.

That was how the problem of size had been solved.

Stile imagined the director’s smirk, if he left now. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need the halter. I am a man.” How significant that statement seemed! If only he could get living people to listen, too. He was a man, not a midget, not a child.

The robot hesitated. Her face and figure were those of a young woman, but she was not of the most advanced type. She was not programmed for this contingency. “Ma’am, it is required—“

Useless to argue with a mechanical! “All right.” Stile took the halter and tied it about his waist. There it might offer some modicum of protection for what a man valued.

The robot smiled. “Very good, ma’am. Now here are the weapons.” She opened the storage case.

It seemed an anomaly to Stile to have a female instructing the broadsword, but he realized that women played the Game too, and there were no handicaps given for size, age, experience or sex, and not all of them cared to default when it came to fencing. They felt as he did: they would go down fighting. Often a person with such an attitude did not go down at all; he/she won, to his/her surprise. Attitude was important.

The robot was not smart, but she was properly programmed. She commenced the course of instruction, leaving nothing to chance. Stance, motion, strategy, exercises for homework to increase facility. Safety pre-cautions. Scoring mechanisms and self-rating scale.
 
Very basic, but also very good. When a program of instruction was instituted on Proton, it was the best the galaxy could offer.

Stile discovered that the broadsword had its own virtues and techniques. It had two cutting edges as well as the point, making it more versatile—for the person who mastered it. It did not have to be heavy; modern alloys and molecular-foam metals made the blade light yet keen. He soon realized that there could be a Game advantage in this weapon. Most opponents would expect him to go for the rapier, and would play to counter that. Of such misjudgments were Game decisions made.

Next morning he reported to the stables as usual.
 
“Stile, we’re bringing in a robot trainer from another farm,” the foreman said. “Name’s Roberta. Get out to the receiving gate and bring her in.” And he smiled privately.

Stile went without question, knowing another stable hand would be assigned to cover his chores in the interim. He had been given a post of distinction: greeter to a new trainer. No doubt Roberta was a very special machine.

She was already at the gate when Stile arrived. She was in the shade of a dwarf eucalyptus tree, mounted on a fine bay mare about sixteen hands high. The gate-keeper pointed her out, half-hiding a smirk.

What was so funny about this robot? Stile was reminded uncomfortably of the weapon-program director, who had known about the female robot instructor.
 
Being deceived in any fashion by a robot was always an embarrassment, since no robot intentionally deceived.
 
Unless programmed to—but that was another matter.

This one did not look special: flowing yellow hair, a perfect figure—standard, since they could make humanoid robots any shape desired. Why make a grotesquerie? She seemed small to be a trainer—smaller than the fencing instructor he had worked with. She was a rider, obviously; was she also a jockey? To break in the most promising horses for racing? No robot-jockey could actually race, by law; but no living person had the programmed patience of a training machine, and the horses did well with such assistance.

“Roberta, follow me,” Stile said, and began walking along the access trail.

The robot did not follow. Stile paused and turned, annoyed. “Roberta, accompany me, if you please.” That last was a bit of irony, as robots lacked free will.

She merely looked at him, smiling.

Oh, no—was she an idiot model, not programmed for verbal directives? Yet virtually all humanoid robots were keyed to respond at least to their names. “Roberta,” he said peremptorily.

The mare perked her ears at him. The girl chuckled.
 
“She only responds to properly couched directives,” she said.

Stile’s eyes passed from girl to mare. A slow flush forged up to his hairline. “The horse,” he said.

 
“Roberta, say hello to the red man,” the girl said, touching the horse’s head with her crop.

The mare neighed.

“A robot horse,” Stile repeated numbly. “A living girl.”

“You’re very intelligent,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Stile.” Of all the pitfalls to fall into!

“Well, Uh-Stile, if you care to mount Roberta, you can take her in.”

His embarrassment was replaced by another kind of awkwardness. “I am a stable hand. I don’t ride.”

She dismounted smoothly. Afoot she was slightly shorter than he, to his surprise. She evinced the confidence normally associated with a larger person, though of course height was less important to women. “You’re obviously a jockey, Uh-Stile, as I am. Don’t try to fool me.”

“That’s Stile, no uh,” he said.

“Stile Noah? What an unusual appellation!”

“Just Stile. What’s your name?”

“I’m Tune. Now that the amenities are complete, get your butt on that robot.”

“You don’t understand. Stable hands tend horses; they don’t ride.”

“This is not a horse, it’s a robot. Who ever heard of a jockey who didn’t ride?”

“I told you I’m not—“ Then it burst upon him.

“That’s why my employer chose me! Because I’m small. He wanted a potential jockey!”

“Your comprehension is positively effulgent.”

“Do—do you really think—?”

“It is obvious. Why else would anyone want serfs our size? Your employer started you on the ground, huh?
 
Slinging dung?”

“Slinging dung,” he agreed, feeling better. This girl was small; she was not really making fun of him; she was playfully teasing him. “Until I found a worm.”

“A whole worm?” she asked, round-eyed. “How did it taste?”

“A parasite worm. In the manure.”

 
“They don’t taste very good.”

“Now I’ve been a year in the stable. I don’t know a thing about riding.”

“Ha. You’ve watched every move the riders make,” Tune said. “I know. I started that way too. I wasn’t lucky enough to find a worm. I worked my way up.
 
Now I race. Don’t win many, but I’ve placed often enough. Except that now I’m on loan to do some training. For those who follow after, et cetera. Come on—I’ll show you how to ride.”

Stile hesitated. “I don’t think I’m supposed to—“

“For crying in silence!” she exclaimed. “Do I have to hand-feed you? Get up behind me. Roberta won’t mind.”

“It’s not the horse. It’s my employer’s policy. He’s very strict about—“

“He told you not to take a lift on a robot?”

“No, but-“

“What will he say if you don’t get Roberta to your stable at all?”

Was she threatening him? Better her displeasure than that of his employer! “Suppose I just put you back on the horse and lead her in?”

Tune shrugged. She had the figure for it. “Suppose you try?”

Call one bluff! Stile stepped in close to lift her. Tune met him with a sudden, passionate kiss.

Stile reeled as from a body-block. Tune drew back and surveyed him from all of ten centimeters distance.
 
“Had enough? You can’t lead Roberta anyway; she’s programmed only for riding.”

Stile realized he was overmatched. “We’ll do it your way. It’ll be your fault if I get fired.”

“I just knew you’d see the light!” she exclaimed, pleased. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Then she removed her foot. “Use the stirrup. Hold on to me. Lift your left foot. It’s a big step, the first time.”