Split Infinity

“Oh, a Game-digger!” Tome squinted at Sheen. “For one like that, I’d make a move, certainly! She much on the mental side?”

“Limited as a robot,” Stile said.

“Going to move up to Rung Six, so you’ll be Number One after the cut? That’s risky. If someone gets sick at the last moment before qualification, you’ll be shunted into the Tourney.” Tome obviously had no doubts, in his mind, about the outcome of this match, and hardly cared; he had no intention of skirting the Tourney too closely.

“Going to Rung Five,” Stile said. “I prefer that this not be bruited about.”

Tome’s head snapped around in surprise. “This year?”

“Not entirely my choice. But I’ve had some problems in my employment.”

“So I have heard. Knee injury, wasn’t it? I’m surprised you didn’t have immediate surgery.”

“I got scared of it.”

Tome laughed. “You, scared! But I must admit you do look somewhat ravaged. Must have been a hard decision.”

“It was,” Stile agreed, though he knew that what showed on his body was the ravage of his two-day confinement in the Black Castle without food and water, rather than his mental state. Sheen had done what she could for him, but he had not yet properly recovered.

“Well, I wish you well,” Tome finished sincerely.  The range cleared, and they entered. On a table at the entrance lay the set of antique pistols, with elaborate pearl handles and glistening black steel. A pistol specialist could have called out the exact vintage and make—probably eighteenth-century European—but Stile was concerned only with their heft and accuracy. Though they were replicas that fired no balls, they bucked and smoked just like the real ones.

Stile had to be sure to win this match; he could not rechallenge until the rungs had shifted, and this close to the Tourney there was unlikely to be much shifting.  Players were either hanging on to their rungs to be sure that they qualified, or trying to stay below qualification range. Stile’s late decision to enter the Tourney was unusual, and would make ripples. He was going to have to bump someone who was depending on the Tourney as his last chance for extended tenure.

The Citizens had so arranged it that there were always more serfs interested in entering the Tourney than there were available slots—especially in Stile’s own age range, where many mature people were ending their tenures. There were tenures expiring in all age ranges, for serfs could enlist at any age, but the older ones generally lacked the drive and stamina for real expertise in the Game, and the younger ones lacked experience and judgment. The ladders of the Thirties, male and female, were the prime ones.

The weapons were good, of course, and as similar to each other as modern technology could make them.  Each party took one, went to the centermark of the range, stood back to back, and began the paceoff at the sound of the timing bell. Ten paces, turn and fire—each pace measured by the metronome. The man who turned and/or fired too soon would be disqualified; the tenth beat had to sound.

Some people who were excellent shots in practice were bad ones in such duels. They had to have time to get set, to orient on the target—and here there was neither time nor any fixed target. Some lost their nerve when confronting an actual opponent who was firing back. Special skills and nerve were required for this sort of match. Both Stile and Tome possessed these qualities.

At the tenth beat Stile leaped, turning in air to face his opponent. Tome merely spun in place, withholding his shot until he fathomed Stile’s motion. He knew Stile seldom fired first; Stile preferred to present a difficult target, encouraging the other to waste his only shot.

Then Stile could nail him at leisure. Tome was too smart for that, Stile landed, plunged on into a roll, flipped to his feet and jumped again. Had Tome figured him for a straight bounce, his shot would have missed; but Tome was still being careful. His pistol was following Stile’s progress, waiting for the moment of correct orientation.

That moment never came. In midair Stile fired. A red splash appeared in the center of Tome’s chest, marking the heart. Contrary to popular fancy, the human heart was centered in the chest, not set in the left side.

Tome spread his hands. He had waited too long, and never gotten off his shot. He was officially dead.

Tome washed off the red stain while Stile registered the win with the Game computer outlet. They shook hands and returned to the Game-annex. Their names had already exchanged rungs. Stile punched Rung Eight, his next challenge. He wanted to capture as many rungs as he could before the alarm spread—and before news of his present weakened condition also got about. If his opponents thought it through, they would force him into the more grueling physical Games, where he would be weakest.

The challengee appeared. He was a squat, athletic man named Beef. “Tome, you challenging me?” he demanded incredulously.

“Not I,” Tome said, gesturing to the ladder.