Split Infinity

“And thou thinkest the werewolf might be interested—for half an hour? It is not a difficult thing I ask—“

 “Won’t hurt to ask him,” Stile agreed, stepping through the curtain as she sprinkled the liquid on him.

CHAPTER 15 - Games

It was a longer hike to the nearest dome, this time, but he had more confidence and need, and that sniff of wolfsbane still buoyed him. In due course, gasping, he stepped inside and made a call to Sheen. It was evening; he had the night to rest with her. He needed it; his high of the last visit to Phaze finally gave out, and he realized the episode with the Yellow Adept had drained him more than he had realized at the time. Or perhaps it was the low following the effect of the wolfs-bane.

“So you are the Blue Adept,” Sheen said, not letting him sleep quite yet. “And you need some things to use to free your equine girl friend.”

“Now don’t get jealous again,” he grumbled. “You know I have to—“

“How can I be jealous? I’m only a machine.”

Stile sighed. “I should have taken Yellow up on her offer. Then you would have had something to be jealous about.”

“You mean you didn’t—with Neysa?”

“Not this time. I—“

“You were saving it for the witch?” she demanded indignantly. “Then ran out of time?”

“Well, she was an extremely pretty—“

“You made your callous point. I won’t resent Neysa.  She’s only an animal.”

“Are you going to have your friends assemble my order or aren’t you?”

“I will take care of it in good time. But I don’t see how a cube of dry ice will help your animals.”

“Plus a diamond-edged hacksaw.”

“And a trained owl,’ she finished. “Do you plan to start romancing birds next?”

“Oh, go away and let me sleep!”

Instead she tickled him. “Birds, hags, mares, machines—why can’t you find a normal woman for a change?”

“I had one,” he said, thinking of Tune. “She left me.”

“So you get hung up on all the half-women, fearing to tackle a real one again—because you’re sure she wouldn’t want you.” She was half-teasing, half-sad, toying with the notion that she herself was a symptom of his aberration.

“I’ll look for one tomorrow,” he promised.

“Not tomorrow. First thing in the morning, you have an appointment to meet your current employer. This Citizen is very keen on the Game.”

Exasperated, he rolled over and grabbed her. “The irony is,” he said into her soft hair, “you are now more real to me than most real girls I have known. When I told you to brush up on your humanoid wiles, I didn’t mean at my expense.”

“Then you should have said that. I take things literally, because I’m only a—“

He shut her up with a kiss. But the thoughts she had voiced were only a reflection of those he was having.  How long could he continue with half-women?

In the morning he met his employer. This was, to his surprise, a woman. No wonder Sheen had had women on her mind!  The Citizen was elegantly gowned and coined: a handsome lady of exquisitely indeterminate age. She was, of course, substantially taller than he, but had the grace to conceal this by remaining seated in his presence. “Sir,” Stile said. All Citizens were sir, regard-less of sex or age.

“See that you qualify for the Tourney,” she said with polite force. “Excused.” That was that. If he lost one Game, this employer would cut him off as cleanly as his prior one had. He was supposed to feel deeply honored that she had granted him this personal audience—and he did. But his recent experience in Phaze had diminished his awe of Citizens. They were, after all, only people with a lot of wealth and power.

Stile and Sheen went for his challenge for Rung Seven. His employer surely had bets on his success.  There were things about this that rankled, but if he fouled up. Sheen would be the one to pay. She lacked his avenue of escape to a better world. He had to do what he could for her, until he figured out some better alternative.

The holder of Rung Seven kept his appointment—as he had to, lest he forfeit. He was not much taller than Stile and tended to avoirdupois despite the antifat medication in the standard diet. Hence his name. Snack. He hardly looked like a formidable player—but neither did Stile.

An audience had gathered, as Sheen had predicted. It was possible that some Citizens also were viewing the match on their screens—especially his own employer.  Stile’s move was news.

Snack got the numbered facet of the grid. Stile sighed inaudibly; he had been getting bad breaks on facets in this series. Snack always selected MENTAL.

Very well. Stile would not choose NAKED, because Snack was matchless at the pure mental games. Snack was also uncomfortably sharp at MACHINE- and ANIMAL-assisted mental efforts. Only in TOOL did Stile have an even chance. So it had to come up 2B.

There was a murmur of agreement from the spectators outside, as they watched on the public viewscreen.  They had known what the opening box would be. They were waiting for the next grid.