Split Infinity

by Piers Anthony

  “You may prefer to watch from the grandstand,” Stile told Sheen.

  “Why? Am I not allowed near the horses?”

  “You’re allowed, when you’re with me. But the other guys may razz you.”

  She shrugged. She always did that extremely well, with a handsome bounce. “I can’t guard you from harm if I am banished to the stands.”

  “I gave you fair warning. Just remember to blush.”

  Battleaxe was saddled and ready. No token equipment now; this was the race. He gave a little whinny when he saw Stile. Stile spoke to him for several minutes, running his hands along the fine muscles, checking the fittings and the feet. He knew everything was in order; he was only reassuring the horse, who could get skittish amid the tension of the occasion. “We’re going to win this one, Axe,” he murmured, almost crooning, and the horse’s ears swiveled like little turrets to orient on him as he spoke. “Just take it nice and easy, and leave these other nags behind.”

  The other jockeys were doing the same for their steeds, though their assurances of victory lacked conviction. They were all small, like Stile, and healthy; all miniature athletes, the fittest of all sportsmen. One looked across from his stall, spying Sheen. “Got a new filly, Stile?”

  Then the others were on it. “She sure looks healthy, Stile; how’s she ride?”

  “Is she hot in the stretch?”

  “Pedigreed? Good breeder?”

  “Doesn’t buck too much on the curves?”

  There was more—and less restrained.

  Sheen remembered to blush.

  They relented. “Stile always does run with the best,” the first one called, and returned his attention to his own horse.

  “Did you say best or bust?” another inquired.

  “We always do envy his steeds,” another said. “But we can’t ride them the way he can.”

  “No doubt,” Sheen agreed, and they laughed.

  “You have now been initiated,” Stile informed her. “They’re good guys, when you know them. We compete fiercely on the track, but we understand each other. We’re all of a kind.”

  Soon the horses were at the starting gate, the jockeys mounted on their high stirrups, knees bent double in the relaxed position. The crowd hushed. There was a race every day, but the horses and jockeys and sponsors differed, and the crowd was always excited. There was a fascination about horse racing that had been with man for thousands of years, Stile was sure—and he felt it too. The glamour and uncertainty of competition, the extreme exertion of powerful animals, the sheer beauty of running horses—ah, what could match it!

  Then the gate lifted and they were off.

  Now he was up posting high, head the same level as his back, his body staying at the same elevation though the horse rocked up and down with effort. The key was in the knees, flexing to compensate, and in the balance. It was as if he were floating on Battleaxe, providing no drag against the necessary forward motion. Like riding the waves of a violent surf, steady amidst the commotion.

  This was routine for Stile, but he loved it. He experienced an almost sexual pitch of excitement as he competed, riding a really good animal. He saw, from the periphery of his vision, the constant rocking of the backs of the other horses, their jockeys floating above them, so many chips on the torrent. The audience was a blur, falling always to the rear, chained to the ground. Reality was right here, the center of action, heart of the drifting universe. Ah, essence!

  Battleaxe liked room, so Stile let him lunge forward, clearing the press as only he could do. Then it was just a matter of holding the lead. This horse would do it; he resented being crowded or passed. All he needed was an understanding hand, guidance at the critical moment, and selection of the most promising route. Stile knew it; the other jockeys knew it. Unless he fouled up, this race was his. He had the best horse.

  Stile glanced back, with a quick turn of his head. His body continued the myriad invisible compensations and urgings required to maximize equine output, but his mind was free. The other horses were not far behind, but they were already straining, their jockeys urging them to their futile utmost, while Battleaxe was loafing. The lead would begin to widen at the halfway mark, then stretch into a runaway. The Citizen would be pleased. Maybe the horse had been primed by the attention this morning, the slight change in routine, the minirace with Molly. Maybe Stile himself was hyped, and Battleaxe was responding. This just might be a race against the clock, bettering this horse’s best time. That would certainly please the Citizen! But Stile was not going to push; that would be foolish, when he had the race so readily in hand. Save the horse for another day, when it might be a choice between pushing and losing.

  He was a full length ahead as they rounded the first turn. Battleaxe was moving well indeed; it would not be a course record, but it would be quite respectable time, considering the lack of competition. Other Citizens had made fabulous offers for this horse, Stile knew, but of course he was not for sale. The truth was, Battleaxe would not win races if he were sold—unless Stile went with him. Because Stile alone understood him; the horse would put out gladly for Stile, and for no one else.

  There were a number of jockeys who could run a race as well as Stile, but none matched his total expertise. Stile could handle a difficult horse as well as an easy one, bareback as well as saddled. He loved horses, and they liked him; there was a special chemistry that worked seeming miracles on the track. Battleaxe had been a brute, uncontrollable, remarkably apt with teeth and hoof; he could kick without warning to front, side, and rear. He could bite suddenly, not even laying his ears back; he had learned to conceal his intention. He had broken three trainers, possessing such demoniac strength and timing that they could neither lead him nor remain mounted. Stile’s employer, sensing a special opportunity, had picked Battleaxe up nominally for stud, but had turned him over to Stile. The directive: convert this monster to an effective racer, no effort spared. For this animal was not only mean and strong, he was smart. A few wins would vastly enhance his stud value.

  Stile had welcomed the challenge. He had lived with this horse for three months, grooming him and feeding him by hand, allowing no other person near. He had used no spurs, no electric prods, only the cutting edge of his voice in rebuke, and he had been absolutely true to this standard. He carried a whip—which he used only on any other animal that annoyed Battleaxe, never on Battleaxe himself. The horse was king yet subject to Stile’s particular discipline. Battleaxe evolved the desire to please Stile, the first man he could trust, and it did not matter that the standards for pleasing Stile were rigorous. Stile was, the horse came to understand, a lot of man.

  Then came the riding. Battleaxe was no novice; he knew what it was all about, and tolerated none of it. When Stile set up to ride him, their relationship entered a new and dangerous phase. It was a challenge: was this to be a creature-to-creature friendship, or a rider-and-steed acquaintance? Battleaxe discouraged the latter. When Stile mounted, the horse threw him. There were not many horses who could throw Stile even once, but Battleaxe had a special knack, born of his prior experience. This was not a rodeo, and Stile refused to use the special paraphernalia relating thereto. He tackled Battleaxe bareback, using both hands to grip the mane, out in the open where motion was unrestricted. No man had ever given this horse such a break, before.

  Stile mounted again, springing aboard like the gymnast he was, and was thrown again. He was not really trying to stay on; he was trying to tame the animal. It was a competition between them, serious but friendly. Stile never showed anger when thrown, and the horse never attacked him. Stile would hold on for a few seconds, then take the fall rather than excite the horse too much. He usually maneuvered to land safely, often on his feet, and remounted immediately—and was thrown again, and remounted again, laughing cheerily. Until the horse was unsure whether any of these falls was genuine, or merely a game. And finally Battleaxe relented, and let him ride.

  Even then, Stile rode bareback, scorning to use saddle o
r tether or martingale or any other paraphernalia; he had to tame this animal all by himself. But here the Citizen interposed: the horse would not be permitted in the races without regulation saddle and bridle; he must be broken to them. So Stile, with apologies and misgivings, introduced Battleaxe to the things that had never stood between them before.

  It was a disaster. Battleaxe felt Stile had betrayed him. He still permitted the man to ride, but it was no longer so polite. When the bridle came near, Battleaxe would swing his head about and bite; when he was being saddled, he would kick. But Stile had not learned about horses yesterday. Though Battleaxe tried repeatedly, he could never quite get a tooth on Stile’s hand. When he kicked, Stile dodged, caught the foot, and held it up, leg bent; in that position even a 50-kilo man could handicap a 750-kilo horse. Battleaxe, no dummy, soon learned the futility of such expressions of ire, though Stile never really punished him for the attempts. The embarrassment of failing was punishment enough. What was the use of bucking off a rider who would not stay bucked? Of kicking at a man who always seemed to know the kick was coming well before it started?

  Through all this Stile continued to feed Battleaxe, water him, and bring him snacks of salt and fruit, always speaking gently. Finally the horse gave up his last resistance, for the sake of the friendship and respect they shared. Stile could at last saddle him and ride him without challenge of any kind. The insults were dealt to other horses and their riders, in the form of leaving them behind. The attacks were transferred to other people, who soon learned not to fool with this particular horse. Once the Citizen himself visited the stable, and Stile, in a cold sweat, calmed the horse, begging him to tolerate this familiarity, for a bite at the employer would be instant doom. But the Citizen was smart enough to keep his hands off the horse, and there was no trouble. The winning of races commenced, a regular ritual of fitness. The prospective stud fee quintupled, and climbed again with every victory. But Battleaxe had been befriended, not broken; without Stile this would be just another unmanageable horse.

  And Stile, because of his success with Battleaxe, had become recognized as the top jockey on Proton. His employment contract rivaled the value of the horse itself. That was why the Citizen catered to him. Stile, like Battleaxe, performed better when befriended, rather than when forced. “We’re a team, Axe!” he murmured, caressing the animal with his voice. Battleaxe would have a most enjoyable life when he retired from racing, with a mare in every stall. Stile would have a nice bonus payment when his tenure ended; he would be able to reside on some other planet a moderately wealthy man. Too bad that no amount of wealth could buy the privilege of remaining on Proton!

  They came out of the turn, still gaining—and Stile felt a momentary pain in his knees, as though he had flexed them too hard. They were under tension, of course, bearing his weight, springing it so that he did not bounce with the considerable motions of this powerful steed; the average man could not have stood up long to this stress. But Stile was under no unusual strain; he had raced this way hundreds of times, and he took good care of his knees. He had never been subject to stress injuries. Therefore he tried to dismiss it; the sensation must be a fluke.

  But it could not be dismissed. Discomfort progressed to pain, forcing him to uncramp his knees. This unbalanced him, and put the horse off his pace. They began to lose ground. Battleaxe was confused, not understanding what Stile wanted, aware that something was wrong.

  Stile tried to resume the proper position, but his knees got worse, the pain becoming intense. He had to jerk his feet out of the stirrups and ride more conventionally, using saddle and leg pressure to retain his balance. The horse lost more ground, perplexed, more concerned about his rider than the race.

  Stile had never before experienced a problem like this. The other horses were overhauling Battleaxe rapidly. He tried to lift his feet back into the stirrups for a final effort, but pain shot through his knees the moment he put pressure on them. It was getting worse! His joints seemed to be on fire.

  Now the other horses were abreast, passing him. Stile could do nothing; his weight, unsprung, was interfering with his steed’s locomotion. Battleaxe was powerful, but so were the competing animals; the difference between a champion and an also-ran was only seconds. And Battleaxe was not even trying to race anymore. He hardly had a chance, with this handicap.

  All too soon, it was over. Stile finished last, and the track monitors were waiting for him. “Serf Stile, give cause why you should not be penalized for malfeasance.”

  They thought he had thrown the race! “Bring a medic; check my knees. Horse is all right.”

  A med-robot roiled up and checked his knees. “Laser burn,” the machine announced. “Crippling injury.”

  Not that crippling; Stile found he could walk without discomfort, and bend his knees partway without pain. There was no problem with weight support or control. He merely could not flex them far enough to race a horse.

  Sheen ran to him. “Oh, Stile—what happened?”

  “I was lasered,” he said. “Just beyond the turn.”

  “And I did not protect you!” she exclaimed, horrified.

  The track security guard was surveying the audience with analysis devices. Stile knew it would be useless; the culprit would have moved out immediately after scoring. They might find the melted remains of a self-destruct laser rifle, or even of a complete robot, set to tag the first rider passing a given point. There would be no tracing the source.

  “Whoever sent me knew this would happen,” Sheen said. “Oh, Stile, I should have been with you—”

  “Racing a horse? No way. There’s no way to stop a laser strike except to be where it isn’t.”

  “Race voided,” the public-address system announced. “There has been tampering.” The audience groaned.

  A portly Citizen walked onto the track. All the serfs gave way before him, bowing; his full dress made his status immediately apparent. It was Stile’s employer!

  “Sir,” Stile said, beginning his obeisance.

  “Keep those confounded knees straight!” the Citizen cried. “Come with me; I’m taking you directly to surgery. Good thing the horse wasn’t hurt.”

  Numbly, Stile followed the Citizen, and Sheen came too. This was an extraordinary occurrence; Citizens hardly ever took a personal hand in things. They entered a Citizen capsule, a plush room inside with deep jungle scenery on every wall. As the door closed, the illusion became complete. The capsule seemed to move through the jungle, slowly; a great tiger stood and watched them, alarmingly real in three dimensions, then was left behind. Stile realized that this was a representation of a gondola on the back of an elephant. So realistic was the representation that he thought he could feel the sway and rock as the elephant walked.

  Then a door opened, as it were in midair, and they were at the hospital complex. Rapidly, without any relevant sense of motion—for the slow gondola could hardly have matched the sonic velocity of the capsule—they had traveled from the racetrack dome to the hospital dome.

  The chief surgeon was waiting, making his own obeisance to the Citizen. “Sir, we will have those knees replaced within the hour,” he said. “Genuine cultured cartilage, guaranteed non-immuno-reactive; stasis-anesthesia without side effect—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re competent, you’d be fired otherwise,” the Citizen snapped. “Just get on with it. Make sure the replacements conform exactly to the original; I don’t want him disqualified from future racing because of modification.” He returned to his capsule, and in a moment was gone.

  The surgeon’s expression hardened as the Citizen’s presence abated. He stared down at Stile contemptuously, though the surgeon was merely another naked serf. It was that element of height that did it, as usual. “Let’s get on with it,” he said, unconsciously emulating the phrasing and manner of the Citizen. “The doxy will wait here.”

  Sheen clutched Stile’s arm. “I mustn’t separate again from you,” she whispered. “I can’t protect you if I’m not with you.
”

  The surgeon’s hostile gaze fixed on her. “Protect him from what? This is a hospital.”

  Stile glanced at Sheen, beautiful and loving and chastened and concerned for him. He looked at the arrogantly tall surgeon, about whose aristocratic mouth played the implication of a professional sneer. The girl seemed much more human than the man. Stile felt guilty about not being able to love her. He needed to make some act of affirmation, supporting her. “She stays with me,” he said.

  “Impossible. There must be no human intrusion in the operating room. I do not even enter it myself; I monitor the process via holography.”

  “Stile,” Sheen breathed. “The threat to you is real. We know that now. When you separated from me in the race, it was disaster. I must stay with you!”

  “You are wasting my valuable time,” the surgeon snapped. “We have other operations scheduled.” He touched a panel on the wall. “Hospital security: remove obnoxious female.”

  Sheen was technically correct: the attack on him had been made when he was apart from her. He did need her protection. Any “accident” could happen to him. Perhaps he was being paranoid—or maybe he just didn’t like the attitude of the tall doctor. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  The security squad arrived: four husky neuter androids. Hospitals favored androids or artificial men because they seemed human despite their laboratory genesis. This reassured the patients somewhat. But they were not really human, which reassured the administration. No one ever got raped or seduced by a neuter android, and no one ever applied to an android for reassurance. Thus the patients were maintained in exactly the sterile discomfort that was ideal hospital procedure.

  “Take the little man to surgery, cell B-ll,” the doctor said. “Take the woman to detention.”