Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

Stile’s mind drifted. The girl. Tune—could she be right about his destiny? There were stringent rules about horse competition, because of the ubiquitous androids, cyborgs, and robots. Horses had to be completely natural, and raced by completely natural jockeys. The less weight a horse carried, the faster it could go; there were no standardized loads, here. So a man as small as Stile—yes, it did make sense, in Citizen terms. Citizens did not care about serf convenience or feelings;

Citizens cared only about their own concerns. Stile’s aptitude in the Game, his intelligence in schooling—these things were irrelevant. He was small and healthy and coordinated, therefore he was slated to be a jockey. Had he been three meters tall, he would have been slated for some Citizen’s classical basketball team. He didn’t have to like it; he worked where employed, or he left Proton forever. That was the nature of the system.

Still, would it be so bad, racing? Tune herself seemed to like it. Aboard a horse like Spook, here, urging him on to victory, leaving the pack behind, hearing the crowd cheering him on ... there were certainly worse trades than that! He did like horses, liked them well. So maybe the Citizen had done him a favor, making his size an asset. A lout like the stable hand Bourbon might eventually become a rider, but he would never be a racer. Only a small person could be that. Most were women, like Tune, because women tended to be smaller, and gentler. Stile was the exception. Almost, now, he was glad of his size.

And Tune herself—what a woman! He would have to take up music. It had never occurred to him that an ordinary serf could create such beauty. Her—what was that instrument? The keyboard harmonica—her musical solo, emerging as it were from nowhere, had been absolute rapture! Yes, he would have to try his hand at music. That might please her, and he wanted very much to please her.

She could, of course, have her pick of men. She had poise and wit and confidence. She could go with a giant if she wanted. Stile could not pick among women; he had to have one shorter than he. Not because he demanded it, but because society did; if he appeared among serfs with a girl who outmassed him, others would laugh, and that would destroy the relationship. So he was the least of many, from Tune’s perspective, while she was the only one for him.

The trouble was—now that he knew he wanted her—his shyness was boiling up, making any direct approach difficult. How should he—

“One side, shorty!” It was Bourbon, the stable hand who was Stile’s greatest annoyance. Bourbon was adept at getting Stile into mischief, and seemed to resent Stile because he was small. Stile had never understood that, before; now with the realization of his potential to be a jockey, the resentment of the larger person was beginning to make sense. Bourbon liked to make dares, enter contests, prevail over others—and his size would work against him, racing horses. Today Bourbon was leading Pepper, a salt-and-pepper speckled stallion. “Make way for a man and a horse!”

Spook spooked at the loud voice. He leaped ahead. The lead-rope jerked his muzzle around. The horse’s body spun out, then took a roll. The line snapped, as it was designed to; a horse could get hurt when entangled.

Pepper also spooked, set off by the other horse. He careened into a wall, squealing. The genuine imported wood splintered, and blood spattered to the ground.

Stile ran to Spook. “Easy, Spook, easy! You’re okay! Calm! Calm!” He flung his arms about Spook’s neck as the horse climbed to his feet, trying to steady the animal by sheer contact.

Bourbon yanked Pepper’s head about, swearing.

“Now see what you’ve done, midget!” he snapped at Stile. “Of all the runty, oink-headed, pygmy-brained—“

That was all. A fracas would have alerted others to the mishap, and that would have gotten both stable hands into deep trouble. Bourbon led his horse on, still muttering about the incompetence of dwarves, and Stile succeeded in calming Spook.

All was not well. Stile seethed at the insults added to injury, knowing well that Bourbon was responsible for all of this. The horse had a scrape on his glossy neck, and was favoring one foot Stile could cover the scrape with fixative and comb the mane over it, concealing the evidence until it healed, but the foot was another matter. No feet, no horse, as the saying went. It might be only a minor bruise—but it might also be more serious.

He couldn’t take a chance. That foot had to be checked. It would mean a gross demerit for him, for he was liable for any injury to any animal in his charge. This could set his promotion back a year, right when his aspirations had multiplied. Damn Bourbon! If the man hadn’t spoken sharply in the presence of a horse known to be excitable—but of course Bourbon had done it deliberately. He had been a stable hand for three years and believed he was overdue for promotion. He took it out on others as well as on Stile, and of course he resented the way Stile was able to handle the animals.

Stile knew why Bourbon had been passed over. It wasn’t his size, for ordinary riders and trainers could be any size. Bourbon was just as mean to the horses, in little ways he thought didn’t show and could not be proved. He teased them and handled them with unnecessary roughness. Had he been lunging Spook, he would have used martingale and electric prod. Other hands could tell without looking at the roster which horses Bourbon had been handling, for these animals were nervous and shy of men for several days thereafter.

Stile would not report Bourbon, of course. He had no proof-of-fault, and it would be contrary to the serf code, and would gain nothing. Technically, the man had committed no wrong; Stile’s horse had spooked first. Stile should have been paying better attention, and brought Spook about to face the intrusion so as not to be startled. Stile had been at fault, in part, and had been had. Lessons came hard.

Nothing for it now except to take his medicine, fig- uratively, and give Spook his, literally. He led the horse to the office of the vet. “I was lunging him. He spooked and took a fall,” Stile explained, feeling as lame as the horse.

The man examined the injuries competently. “You know I’ll have to report this.”

“I know,” Stile agreed tightly. The vet was well-meaning and honest; he did what he had to do.

“Horses don’t spook for no reason, not even this one. What set him off?”

“I must have been careless,” Stile said. He didn’t like the half-truth, but was caught between his own negligence and the serf code. He was low on the totem, this time.

The vet squinted wisely at him. “That isn’t like you, Stile.”

“I had a girl on my mind,” Stile admitted.

“Ho! I can guess which one! But this is apt to cost you something. I’m sorry.” Stile knew he meant it. The vet would do a serf a favor when he could, but never at the expense of his employer.

The foreman arrived. He was never far from the action. That was his business. Stile wondered, as he often did, how the man kept so well abreast of events even before they were reported to him, as now. “Damage?”

“Slight sprain,” the vet reported. “Be better in a few days. Abrasion on neck, no problem.”

The foreman glanced at Stile. “You’re lucky. Three demerits for carelessness, suspension for one day. Next time pay better attention.”

Stile nodded, relieved. No gross demerit! Had the foot been serious—

“Any extenuating circumstances to report?” the fore-man prodded.

“No.” That galled Stile. The truth could have halved his punishment.

“Then take off. You have one day to yourself.”

Stile left. He was free, but it was no holiday. The demerits would be worked off in the course of three days low on the totem, but that suspension would go down on his permanent record, hurting his promotion prospects. In the case of equivalent qualifications, the person with such a mark on his record would suffer, and probably have to wait until the next occasion for improvement. That could be as little as a day, or as long as two months.