Split Infinity

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.