Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

“It’s a dream,” he assured her. “The Citizens put such prizes out as bait, but only one person in thirty-two gains even a year that way.”

“I would be completely grateful for that dream,” she said, meeting his gaze.

Stile was tempted. He knew he would not have access to a more attractive woman, and she had indeed shown promise in the Game. That athletic ability that had enabled her so blithely and lithely to change chutes would benefit her in many other types of competition.

He could have a very pleasant two years, training her.

Extremely pleasant.

That itself gave him caution. He had loved before, and lost, and it had taken years to recover completely —if he really had. Tune, he thought, with momentary nostalgia. There were ways in which Sheen resembled that former girl.

Still, what promise did he have beyond his remaining three years, anyway? All would be lost, once he left Proton. Oh, he would have a nice nest egg to establish galactic residence, and might even go to crowded Earth itself, but all he really wanted to do was remain on Proton. Since it was unlikely that he could do that, he might as well make these years count. She had mentioned that her own tenure was as short as his, which meant she would have to leave at the same time. That could be very interesting, if they had a firm relation-ship. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“I was born five years before my parents’ tenure ended,” Sheen said, putting down her leaf of lettuce. She had eaten delicately and quite sparingly, as many slender women did. “I obtained a position with a Lady Citizen, first as errand girl, then as nurse. I was a fan of the Game as a child, and had good aptitude, but as my employer grew older she required more care, until—“ She shrugged, and now with the pleasant tingle of the wine and the understanding they were coming to, he could appreciate the way her breasts moved with that gesture. Oh yes, it was a good offer she made—yet something nagged him.

“I have not been to a Game for seven years,” she continued, “though I have viewed it often on my employer’s screens, and rehearsed strategies and techniques constantly in private. My employer has a private exercise gym her doctor recommended; she never used it, so I did, filling in for her. Last week she died, so I have been released on holiday pending settlement of her estate and the inventory her heir is taking. Her heir is female, and healthy, so I do not think the burden will be onerous.”

It could have been quite a different matter. Stile reflected, with a young, healthy male heir. Serfs had no personal rights except termination of tenure in fit physical and mental condition, and no sane person would depart Proton even a day ahead of schedule. Serfs could serve without concern as concubines or studs for their employers—or for each other as private or public entertainment for their employers. Their bodies were the property of the Citizens. Only in privacy, without the intercession of a Citizen, did interpersonal relations between serfs become meaningful. As now.

“So you came to me,” Stile said. “To trade your favors for my favor.”

“Yes.” There needed to be no hesitancy or shame to such acknowledgment. Since serfs had no monetary or property credit, and no power during their tenure, Game-status and sex were the chief instruments of barter.

“I am minded to try it out. Shall we say for a week, then reconsider? I might become tired of you.”

Again there was no formal cause for affront; male-female interactions among serfs were necessarily shallow, though marriage was permitted and provided for. Stile had learned the hard way, long ago, not to expect permanence. Still, he expected a snappy retort to the effect that she would more likely grow tired of him first.

There was no such byplay. “As part of my rehearsal for the Game, I have studied the art of pleasing men,” Sheen said. “I am willing to venture that week.”

A fair answer. And yet, he wondered, would not an ordinary woman, even the most abused of serfs, have evinced some token ire at the callousness of his suggestion? He could have said, “We might not be right for each other.” He had phrased it most bluntly, forcing a reaction. Sheen had not reacted; she was completely matter-of-fact. Again he was nagged. Was there some catch here?

“Do you have special interests?” Stile inquired. “Music?” He hadn’t really wanted to ask that, but it had come out. He associated love with music, because of his prior experience.

“Yes, music,” Sheen agreed.

His interest quickened. “What kind?”

She shrugged again. “Any kind.”

“Vocal? Instrumental? Mechanical?”

Her brow furrowed. “Instrumental.”

“What instrument do you play?”

She looked blank.

“Oh—you just listen,” he said. “I play a number of instruments, preferring the woodwinds. All part of the Game. You will need to acquire skill in at least one instrument, or Game opponents will play you for a weakness there and have easy victories.”

“Yes, I must learn” she agreed.

What would she have done if he had gone for ART instead of PHYSICAL in their match? With her prior choice of NAKED, the intersection would have put them in song, dance or story: the a capella performances.

Perhaps she was a storyteller. Yet she did not seem to have the necessary imagination.

“Let’s do it right,” he said, rising from his meal. “I have a costume—“ He touched a button and the costume fell from a wall vent into his hand. It was a filmy negligee.

Sheen smiled and accepted it. In the privacy of an apartment, clothing was permitted, so long as it was worn discreetly. If there should be a video call, or a visitor at his door. Sheen would have to hide or rip off the clothing lest she be caught by a third party in that state and be compromised. But that only added to the excitement of it, the special, titillating naughtiness of their liaison. It was, in an unvoiced way, the closest any serf could come to emulating any Citizen.

She donned the costume without shame and did a pirouette, causing the material to fling out about her legs. Stile found this indescribably erotic. He shut down the light, so that the material seemed opaque, and the effect intensified. Oh, what clothing did for the woman, creating shadows where ordinarily there were none, making mysteries where none had been before!

Yet again, something ticked a warning in Stile’s mind. Sheen was lovely, yes—but where was her flush of delighted shame? Why hadn’t she questioned his possession of this apparel? He had it on loan, and his employer knew about it and would in due course re-member to reclaim it—but a person who did not know that, who was not aware of the liberalism of this particular employer with respect to his favored serfs, should be alarmed at his seeming hoarding of illicit clothing. Sheen had thought nothing of it.

They were technically within the law—but so was a man who thought treason without acting on it. Stile was an expert Gamesman, attuned to the nuances of human behavior, and there was something wrong with Sheen. But what was it? There was really nothing in her behavior that could not be accounted for by her years of semi-isolation while nursing her Citizen.

Well, perhaps it would come to him. Stile advanced on Sheen, and she met him gladly. None of this oh-please-don’t-hurt-me-sir, catch-me-if-you-can drama. She was not after all very much taller than he, so he had to draw her down only marginally to kiss her. Her body was limber, pliable, and the feel of the gauze between their skins pitched him into a fever of desire. Not in years had he achieved such heat so soon.

She kissed him back, her lips firm and cool. Suddenly the little nagging observations clicked into a comprehensible whole, and he knew her for what she was. Stile’s ardor began sliding into anger.