Split Infinity

  Stile donned the shirt, shaking his head no, embarrassed both by the turn the conversation had taken and the act of assuming clothing. On Proton this would be socially and legally horrendous!

  The shirt should have been large, but somehow turned out to fit him perfectly. He was coming to accept minor magic as the matter of course it was.

  “Well, that’s overrated anyway,” Clip continued. “If I ever found a nubile but virginal human girl, it sure wouldn’t be my head I’d put in her lap!”

  Stile smiled appreciatively, coming to like the expressive and uninhibited male. “What would a unicorn—or, one in equine form—want with a human girl anyway?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” The trousers were passed over. “The Herd Stallion co-opts all the best unicorn mares, which leaves us young males hard up. A unicorn does not live by grain alone, thou knowest! So though human flesh is less sweet than equine, even the touch of a fair maiden’s hand is—”

  “I begin to get the picture.” The trousers fit perfectly also. Stile suppressed another twinge of guilt, donning clothing; this was not Proton, and clothing lacked the significance it had there. Out here in the wilderness, clothing became functional on more than a social basis. “Yet that being the case, an attractive mare shouldn’t have any trouble—”

  Neysa abruptly turned away. Clip lowered his voice. “All right, man. I see thou really knowest not, and thou’dst better. There are horses in unicorn ancestry—not nice to mention it, any more than the apes in thine ancestry—”

  “There are no apes in my—”

  “See what I mean? Sensitive subject. But on occasion there are throwbacks. When a unicorn is birthed without a horn—that is, without the horn-button; couldn’t have a full horn before birth, of course—it is killed in simple mercy. But color is a borderline matter. If it is otherwise perfect, that unicorn is permitted to survive. But there is always that stigma.” Clip frowned, glancing covertly at Neysa.

  “Neysa—is colored like a horse,” Stile said, catching on. “So she is outcast.”

  “Thou hast it. It is no official thing, for she is a full unicorn, but the Herd Stallion won’t breed her, and of course none of the lesser males dare. Nobody touches a young mare without the Herd Stallion’s permission, and he won’t give it—because that would seem to infringe on his prerogative. Our kind is like that; simple logic is no substitute for pride. Some would have it that mules are the stubbornest of equines, but that is a dastardly slight on the stubbornness of the unicorn. So for two seasons now Neysa has gone unbred—all because of her color. And maybe her size.”

  Stile realized that his effort of the past night did not count. He was a man, not a stallion. He could play with a female like Neysa, but could never breed her, any more than a stallion in human form could breed a human girl. “This is outrageous! She’s a fine unicorn! The Stallion should either breed her or free her.”

  “Thou knowest thou’rt only a man,” Clip said, handing Stile the rapier. “But thy personality hath its redeeming aspects. Thou really likest Neysa?”

  “I chose her because she was the finest steed I’d ever seen,” Stile said seriously. “I loved her in that fashion from the start. To me there is no better creature than a perfect—equine.”

  “So thou never, until I spoke to thee, knew what was wrong with her?”

  “There is nothing wrong with her!” Stile snapped.

  “Agreed.” Clip was highly gratified. “Well, I’m supposed to fill thee in on our world. There is little to tell. We unicorns are the dominant animal form, except perhaps in some corners of the pasture where the werewolves and vampires range, and we’re really better off than the human peasants. Anyone can do magic, but most humans don’t, because of the Adepts.”

  “Adepts?”

  “Like Herd Stallions or wolf Pack Leaders, only it’s magic, not mares or bitches they pre-empt. Each Adept has his special style of enchantment, and he’s awfully good in his specialization. I said unicorns were proof against foreign spells, but Adepts are another matter. If an Adept should be after thee—”

  “I see. What defense would I have against one of these super-sorcerers?”

  “No defense suffices, except to hide—and sooner or later an Adept will find thee. They have charms and amulets and familiars spread throughout the realm of Phaze, spying out the news. There’s hardly any limit to the powers of an Adept. In fact—that’s it! The Oracle!”

  “A fortune-teller?”

  “More than that. There is no magic in the temple of the Oracle, and nobody is coerced therein. It is sacred ground. I’ll bet that’s where Neysa is taking thee. Well, then, that covers it. I’ll be off.” He shimmered back into unicorn form and galloped away, his horn and hooves sounding the charge.

  Stile had wanted to know more about Adepts and the Oracle. Well, perhaps Neysa would tell him, if he asked her nicely. Clip had certainly helped a great deal.

  They rode west again, playing brief duets, enjoying themselves. Stile realized that the music of unicorns served another purpose: it alerted friends and foes to their presence. Unicorns were fighting animals; most creatures would prefer to avoid them, and so the sound of the horn cleared the way conveniently. Stile saw rabbits and turtles and an armadillo, but no predators. In short, only creatures that were noncompetitive with unicorns.

  The terrain was highly varied, lush fields giving way to rocky slopes, swamps, open water, and badlands sand. To the north and south the twin mountain ranges continued. The northern peaks were all snow-covered, virtually impassable to any creature with less power and determination than a unicorn; the southern ones seemed to be warmer, unless purple was the color of their snow. Curious! Something about this rugged landscape nagged him, a nascent familiarity, but he was unable to place it.

  In the evening Neysa halted again, giving herself time to graze, and Stile foraged for his own sustenance. He found ripe corn growing, and blackberries. He thought of corn as fall produce, and blackberries as spring, but perhaps this world differed from others in its fruiting seasons too. On Proton anything could grow at any time, in the domes. Nonetheless, these edibles were suspiciously fortuitous—unless Neysa had known of this place and come here deliberately. Yes, of course that was it; she was taking excellent care of him.

  In the night, after moonrise, she changed again. Stile hoped she would show him her firefly form, but she went directly to human. “You know, Neysa, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen—but I think I like you best in your natural form.”

  She smiled, flattered, and kissed him. She didn’t mind being complimented on her unicorn body. She had spent her life stigmatized for a supposedly defective color, and obviously appreciated Stile’s appreciation. This was no doubt the key to her initial acceptance of him. He really did admire her as she was, and was perhaps the first creature unrelated to her to do so. So though she had fought him, in the end she had not wanted to kill him.

  “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 him
self. 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.

  CHAPTER 9

  Promotion

  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 determination 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 ah 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 precautions. 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 gatekeeper 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 l
ooked 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?”