Split Infinity

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 nonimmuno-reactive;  stasis- anesthesia without side effect—“

“Yes, yes, you’re competent, you’d be fired other-wise,” 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: re-move 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 be- cause 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.”

The four advanced. Each was tall, beardless, breast-less, and devoid of any primary sexual characteristics.  Each face was half-smiling, reassuring, gentle, calm.  Androids were smiling idiots, since as yet no synthetic human brain had been developed that could compare to the original. It was useless to attempt to argue or reason; the creatures had their order.

Stile caught the first by the right arm, whirled, careful not to bend his knees, and threw it to the floor with sufficient force to stun even its sturdy, uncomplicated brain. He sidestepped the next, and guided it into the doctor. Had the surgeon known he was dealing with a Game specialist, he would not so blithely have sent his minions into the fray.

Sheen dispatched her two androids as efficiently, catching one head in each hand and knocking the two heads together with precise force. She really was trained to protect a person; Stile had not really doubted this, but had not before had the proof.

The surgeon was struggling with the android Stile had sent; the stupid creature mistook him for the subject to be borne away to surgery. “Idiot! Get off me!”

Stile and Sheen sprinted down the corridor. “You realize we’re both in trouble?” he called to her as the commotion of pursuit began. It was a considerable understatement. She remembered to laugh.

CHAPTER 4 - Curtain

They ducked into a service-access shaft. “Stay out of people-places,” Sheen told him. “I can guide us through the machine passages, and that’s safest.”

“Right.” Stile wondered just how foolish he was being. He knew his employer: the man would fire him instantly because of the havoc here. Why was he doing it? Did he really fear murder in surgery? Or was he just tired of the routine he had settled into? One thing was sure: there would be a change now!