Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

There were many rooms here, clean and hot and steamy, with many serfs bearing towels, brushes, ointments, and assorted edibles and beverages. One large room resembled a swimming pool—but the water was bubbly-hot and richly colored and scented, almost like soup. Several Citizens were soaking in this communal bath, conversing. Stile knew they were Citizens, though they were naked, because of their demeanor and the deference the clustered serfs were paying. Clothing distinguished the Citizen, but was not the basis of Citizen-ship; a Citizen could go naked if he chose, and sacrifice none of his dignity or power. Nevertheless, some wore jewelry.

They came to a smaller pool. Here Stile’s employer soaked. Six extraordinarily voluptuous young women were attending him, rubbing oils into his skin, polishing his fingernails, even grooming his privates, which were supremely unaroused. An older man was doing the Citizen’s hair, meticulously, moving neatly with the Citizen to keep the lather from his face.

“Sir,” the foreman said respectfully.

The Citizen took no notice. The girls continued their labors. Stile and the foreman stood where they were, at attention. Stile was conscious again of the grime on him, from his recent riding lesson; what a contrast he was to these premises and all the people associated with them! Several minutes passed.

Stile noted that the Citizen had filled out slightly in the past year, but remained a healthy and youngish-looking man. He had fair muscular development, suggesting regular exercise, and obviously he did not over-eat—or if he did, he stayed with non-nutritive staples. His hair looked white—but that was the effect of the lather. His pubic region was black. It was strange seeing a Citizen in the same detail as a serf!

Two more men entered the chamber. One was Billy, the roving security guard for the farm; the other was Bourbon. “Sir,” Billy said.

Now the Citizen nodded slightly to the foreman. “Be at ease,” the foreman said to the others. Stile, Billy and Bourbon relaxed marginally.

The Citizen’s eyes nicked to Bourbon. “Elucidate your protest.”

Bourbon, in obvious awe of his employer, swallowed and spoke. “Sir, I was passed over for promotion in favor of Stile, here, when I have seniority and a better record.”

The Citizen’s eyes flicked coldly to the foreman.

“You promoted Stile. Justify this.”

The foreman had promoted him? Stile had not been aware that the man had such power. He had thought the foreman’s authority ended with discipline, record-keeping, and perhaps the recommendation of candidates. The Citizen might have gotten mixed up, not paying full attention to the details of serf management, but the foreman should never have erred like this! He was the one who had suspended Stile, after all.

“Sir,” the foreman said, ill at ease himself. “It is my considered judgment that Stile is the proper man to fill the present need. I prefer to have him trained on the robot horse, which will only be with us three months.”

The Citizen’s eyes flicked back to Bourbon. “You are aware that the foreman exists to serve my interests. He is not bound by guidelines of seniority or record. It is his prerogative and mandate to place the proper personnel in the proper slots. I do not permit this of him, I require it. You have no case.”

“Sir,” Bourbon said rebelliously.

The Citizen’s eyes touched the foreman. There was no trace of humor or compassion in them. “Do you wish to permit this man to pursue this matter further?”

“No, sir,” the foreman said.

“Overruled. Bourbon, make your specifics.”

What was going on here? Why should the Citizen waste his time second-guessing his own foreman, whose judgment he obviously trusted? If the foreman got re-versed, it would be an awkward situation.

“Sir, Stile has the favor of the visiting instructor, Tune. I believe she prevailed on the foreman to promote Stile out of turn, though he fouled up only yesterday, injuring one of your race horses. My own record is clean.”

For the first time the Citizen showed emotion. “Injured my horse? Which one?”

“Spook, sir.”

“My most promising miler!” The Citizen waved one arm, almost striking a girl. She teetered at the edge of the pool for a moment before recovering her balance. “Fall back, attendants!” he snapped. Now that emotion had animated him, he was dynamic.

Instantly the seven attendants withdrew to a distance of four meters and stood silently. Stile was sure they were just as curious about this business as he was, though of course less involved.

Now there was something ugly about the Citizen’s gaze, though his face was superficially calm. “Foreman, make your case.”

The foreman did not look happy, but he did not hesitate. “Sir, I will need to use the vidscreen.”

“Do so.” The Citizen made a signal with one finger, and the entire ceiling brightened. It was a giant video receiver, with special elements to prevent condensation on its surface. “Respond to the serf’s directives, ad hoc.”

The foreman spoke a rapid series of temporal and spatial coordinates. A picture formed on the screen. Stile and the others craned their necks to focus on it. It was the stable, with the horse Spook looking out. A running film-clock showed date and time: yesterday morning.

“Forward action,” the foreman said, and the film jumped ahead to show Stile approaching the pen.

Stile watched, fascinated. He had had no idea this was being filmed. He looked so small, the horse so large—yet he was confident, the horse nervous. ‘Come on, Spook,’ his image said, encouraging the horse. But Spook was not cooperative.

The film went through the whole ugly sequence relentlessly, as Stile gentled and bluffed and fought the great stallion, forcing him to proceed to the lunging tree.

“As you can see, sir,” the foreman said. “This man was dealing with an extremely difficult animal, but was not fazed. He used exactly that amount of force required to bring the horse in line. I have handled Spook myself; I could not have gotten him to lunge on that morning.”

“Why didn’t you send help?” the Citizen demanded. “I would have had difficulty myself, in that situation.” This was no idle vanity; the Citizen was an expert horseman.

“Because, sir, I knew Stile could handle it. The presence of other serfs would only have alarmed the horse. This is why Stile was assigned to this animal on this day; Spook needed to be exercised and disciplined with competence. He had thrown his rider on the prior day.”

“Proceed.”

Under the foreman’s direction the scene now shifted to Pepper’s stall. Pepper showed no nervousness as Bourbon approached, but he laid back his ears as he recognized the stable hand. Bourbon brought him out roughly, slapping him unnecessarily, but the horse b-haved well enough.

“This man, sir, was handling a docile animal brusquely,” the foreman said. “This is typical of his manner.

It is not a fault in itself, as some animals do respond to unsubtle treatment, but had he been assigned to exercise Spook—“

“Point made,” the Citizen said, nodding. He was well attuned to the mannerisms of horses. “Get on with it.”

Stile glanced at Bourbon. The stable hand was frozen, obviously trapped in an expose he had never anticipated.

The film-Bourbon came up behind Stile, who now had Spook trotting nicely. The animal was magnificent. A small, stifled sigh of appreciation escaped one of the watching girls of the hammam. Girls really responded to horses!

Bourbon chose his time carefully. “One side, shorty!” he exclaimed almost directly behind Stile and the horse. There was no question about the malice of the act.

Spook spooked. The rest followed.