Split Infinity

CHAPTER 9 - Promotion

Dreams came, replaying old memories ...

The weapon-program director stared down at him.  “You sure you want to get into swords, lad? They get pretty heavy.” He meant heavy for someone Stile’s size.

Again that burgeoning anger, that hopeless wrath instigated by the careless affronts of strangers. That de-termination to damn well prove he was not as small as they saw him. To prove it, most of all, to himself. “I need a sword. For the Game.”

“Ah, the Game.” The man squinted at him judiciously. “Maybe I’ve seen you there. Name?”

“Stile.” For a moment he hoped he had some compensating notoriety from the Game.

The man shook his head. “No, must have been someone else. A child star, I think.”

So Stile reminded this oaf of a child. It didn’t even occur to the program director that such a reference might be less than complimentary to a grown man. But it would be pointless to react openly—or covertly. Why couldn’t he just ignore what others thought, let their opinions flow from his back like idle water? Stile was good at the Game, but not that good. Not yet. He had a number of weaknesses to work on—and this was one.  “Maybe you’ll see me some time—with a sword.”

The director smiled condescendingly. “It is your privilege. What kind did you want?”

“The rapier.”

The man checked his list. “That class is filled. I can put you on the reserve list for next month.”

This was a disappointment. Stile had admired the finesse of the rapier, and felt that he could do well with it. “No, I have time available now.”

“The only class open today is the broadsword. I doubt you’d want that.”

Stile doubted it too. But he did not appreciate the director’s all-too-typical attitude. It was one thing to be looked down on; another to accept it with proper grace.  “I’ll take the broadsword.”

The man could not refuse him. Any serf was entitled to any training available, so long as he was employed and the training did not interfere with his assigned duties. “I don’t know if we have an instructor your size.”

Stile thought of going up against a giant for his first lesson. He did not relish that either. “Aren’t you supposed to have a full range of robots?”

The man checked. He was obviously placing difficulties in the way, trying to discourage what he felt would be a wasted effort. He could get a reprimand from his own employer if he placed a serf in an inappropriate class and an injury resulted. “Well, we do have one, but-“

“I’ll take that one,” Stile said firmly. This oaf was not going to balk him!

The director shrugged, smiling less than graciously.

“Room 21.”

Stile was startled. That happened to be his age.

Twenty-one. He had been a stable hand for a year, now.  Coincidence, surely. He thanked the director perfunctorily and went to room 21.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the instructor said, coming to life. “Please allow me to put this protective halter on you, so that no untoward accident can happen.” She held out the armored halter.

A female robot, programmed of course for a woman.

That was how the problem of size had been solved.

Stile imagined the director’s smirk, if he left now. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need the halter. I am a man.” How significant that statement seemed! If only he could get living people to listen, too. He was a man, not a midget, not a child.

The robot hesitated. Her face and figure were those of a young woman, but she was not of the most advanced type. She was not programmed for this contingency. “Ma’am, it is required—“

Useless to argue with a mechanical! “All right.” Stile took the halter and tied it about his waist. There it might offer some modicum of protection for what a man valued.

The robot smiled. “Very good, ma’am. Now here are the weapons.” She opened the storage case.

It seemed an anomaly to Stile to have a female instructing the broadsword, but he realized that women played the Game too, and there were no handicaps given for size, age, experience or sex, and not all of them cared to default when it came to fencing. They felt as he did: they would go down fighting. Often a person with such an attitude did not go down at all; he/she won, to his/her surprise. Attitude was important.

The robot was not smart, but she was properly programmed. She commenced the course of instruction, leaving nothing to chance. Stance, motion, strategy, exercises for homework to increase facility. Safety pre-cautions. Scoring mechanisms and self-rating scale.  Very basic, but also very good. When a program of instruction was instituted on Proton, it was the best the galaxy could offer.