Split Infinity (6 page)

“The security squad is efficient,” Stile agreed. “But they put you back together again, as good as before.”

“I can’t believe that! Resoldered connections aren’t as strong as the originals, and I think they damaged my power supply by shorting it out. I spoke of rape last night, but I did not know the meaning of the term!”

And this was the gentle treatment! Had Stile not pleaded for her, and had he not been valuable to the Citizen, Sheen would have been junked without compunction. It would not have occurred to the Citizen to consider her feelings, or even to realize that a robot had feelings. Fortunately she had turned out clean, no bomb or other threat in her, and had been restored to him. He had been lucky. “Sir: thank you.”

“Just win that race,” the speaker said grumpily.

There it was, without even the effort to conceal it: the moment Stile’s usefulness ended, he would be discarded with no further concern. He had to keep winning races!

“You pleaded for me,” Sheen said, wiping her eyes with her fingers. “You saved me.”

“I like you,” Stile admitted awkwardly.

“And I love you. And oh. Stile, I can never—“

He halted her protestations with a kiss. What use to dwell on the impossible? He liked her, and respected her—but they both knew he could never, this side of sanity, actually love a machine.

They remounted and continued their ride through the lush gardens. They passed a quaint ornate fountain, with a stone fish jetting water from its mouth, and followed the flow to a glassy pond. Sheen paused to use the reflection to clean up her face and check for dam-age, not quite trusting the expertise of the security squad.

“Twice I have accused you falsely—“ Stile began, deeply disturbed.

“No, Stile. The second time I accused me. It could have been, you know—a programmed directive to guard you from harm, with an unprogrammed, strictly mechanical booby trap to do the opposite. Or to take out the Citizen himself, when we got close enough. We had to check—but oh, I feel undone!”

“Nevertheless, I owe you one,” he said. “You are a machine—but you do have rights. Ethical rights, if not legal ones. You should not have been subjected to this sort of thing—and if I had been alert, I would have kept you off my employer’s premises until—“ He shrugged. “I would never have put you through this, had I anticipated it.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” she said. “You have this foolish concern for animals and machines.” She smiled wanly. Then she organized herself and remounted Molly. “Come on—let’s canter!”

They cantered. Then the horses got the spirit of competition and moved into a full gallop, pretending to race each other. They had felt the tension and excitement of the bomb investigation without comprehending it, and now had surplus energy to let off. Arcades and mini-jungles and statuary sped by, a wonderland of wealth, but no one cared. For the moment they were free, the four of them, charging through their own private world—a world where they were man and woman, stallion and mare, in perfect harmony. Four minds with a single appreciation.

Too soon it ended. They had completed the loop.
 
They dismounted, and Stile turned Battleaxe over to a groom. “Walk him down; he’s in fine fettle, but I’ll be racing him this afternoon. Give Molly a treat; she’s good company.”

“That’s all?” Sheen inquired as they left the premises. “You have time off?”

“My time is my own—so long as I win races. The horse is ready; odds are we’ll take that race handily. I may even avoid a reprimand for my carelessness, though the Citizen knows I know I deserve one. Now I have only to prepare myself.”

“How do you do that?”

“One guess,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“Is that according to the book?”

“Depends on the book.”

“I like that book. Must be hard on normal girls, though.”

He snorted. She was well aware he had not had normal girls in his apartment for a long time. Not on a live-in arrangement.

Back at that apartment. Sheen went about her toilette. Now that she no longer had to conceal her nature from him, she stopped eating; there was no sense wasting food. But she had to dispose of the food she had consumed before. Her process of elimination resembled the human process, except that the food was undigested. She flushed herself by drinking a few liters of water and passing it immediately through, followed by an antiseptic solution. After that, she was clean—literally. She would need water only to recharge her reserve after tears; she did not perspire.

Stile knew about all this because he knew about robots; he did not further degrade her appearance of life by asking questions. She had privacy when she wanted it, as a human woman would have had. He did wonder why the security squad had bothered to reassemble her complete with food; maybe they had concentrated on her metal bones rather than the soft tissues, and had not actually deboweled her.

He treated her as he would a lady—yet as he became more thoroughly aware that she was not human, a certain reserve was forming like a layer of dust on a once-bright surface. He liked her very well—but his emotion would inevitably become platonic in time.

He tried to conceal this from her, but she knew it.
 
“My time with you is limited,” she said. “Yet let me dream while I may.”

Stile took her, and held her, and let her dream. He knew no other way to lessen her long-term tragedy.

In the afternoon they reported to the racetrack. Here the stables of several interested Citizens were represented, with vid and holo pickups so that these owners could watch. Stile did not know what sort of betting went on among Citizens, or what the prize might be; it was his fob merely to race and win, and this he in-tended to do.

Serfs filled the tiered benches. They had no money to bet, of course, but bets were made for prestige and personal favors, much as they were in connection with the Game. The serfs of Citizens with racing entries were commonly released from other duties to attend the races, and of course they cheered vigorously for the horses of their employers. A horse race, generally, was a fun occasion.

“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 com-motion.

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 mini-race 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 tack-led 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.