Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

In the evening Neysa halted again, giving herself time to graze, and Stile foraged for his own sustenance. He found ripe corn growing, and blackberries. He thought of corn as fall produce, and blackberries as spring, but perhaps this world differed from others in its fruiting seasons too. On Proton anything could grow at any time, in the domes. Nonetheless, these edibles were suspiciously fortuitous—unless Neysa had known of this place and come here deliberately. Yes, of course that was it; she was taking excellent care of him.

In the night, after moonrise, she changed again. Stile hoped she would show him her firefly form, but she went directly to human. “You know, Neysa, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve seen—but I think I like you best in your natural form.”

She smiled, flattered, and kissed him. She didn’t mind being complimented on her unicorn body. She had spent her life stigmatized for a supposedly defective color, and obviously appreciated Stile’s appreciation. This was no doubt the key to her initial acceptance of him. He really did admire her as she was, and was perhaps the first creature unrelated to her to do so. So though she had fought him, in the end she had not wanted to kill him.

“The Oracle—“ he began. But she only kissed him again.

She wasn’t talking. Ah, well. The stubbornness of unicorns! She had other virtues. He kissed her back.

Next morning she gave him some pointers on the use of the rapier. Stile had used a sword before, as fencing was one of the aspects of the Game. But by an anomaly of circumstance he had practiced with the broadsword, not the rapier. This light, thin sword was strange to him—and if it were the kind of weapon commonly used in this world, he had better master it in a hurry.

Neysa was expert. Stile had supposed a unicorn would not care to have the weapon of an opponent so close to the tender eyes, ears, and nose—but the proximity of her organs of perception gave her marvelous coordination with her weapon. Stile soon learned he could thrust without fear for her; his point would never score. Even if it should happen to slip through her guard, what would it strike? The heavy bone of her forehead, buttressing the horn. It would take more of a thrust than a man like him could muster to penetrate that barrier.

No, he had to look out for himself. Neysa was better on the parry than on the lunge, for the merest twitch of her head moved the horn-tip several centimeters, but to make a forward thrust she had to put her whole body in motion. Thus she was best equipped for defense against a charging adversary, either allowing the other to impale himself on her firm point, or knocking aside his weapon. Stile, forced to attack, found himself disarmed repeatedly, her horn bearing instantly on his vulnerable chest. She could lunge, and with horrible power—but did not, when she fenced a friend. How could he match the speed and power of her natural horn?

But Stile was a quick study. Soon he did not try to oppose power with power. Instead he used the finesse he had developed with the broadsword, countering power with guile. Soon Neysa could no longer disarm him at will, and sometimes he caught her out of position and halted his point just shy of her soft long throat. In a real match he could not hope to overcome her, but he was narrowing the gap.

But he was also getting tired. His throat felt sore, and his eyes got bleary. He could feel a flush on his face, yet he was shivering. Neysa made a feint—and he almost fell across her horn.

“Hostile magic!” he gasped. “I’m weak—“

Then he was unconscious.

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.