Split Infinity

“No,” Stile agreed fervently, thinking again of Sheen.  He had always had a kind of personal magnetism that affected women once they got to know him, though it was usually canceled out by the initial impression his size and shyness made. Thus his heterosexual relation-ships tended to be distant or intimate, with few shades between. But with that situation went a certain responsibility: not to hurt those women who trusted them-selves to him.

He remembered, with another pang of nostalgia, how the jockey girl Tune had stimulated his love, then left him. He had never been able to blame her, and would not have eschewed the affair had he known what was coming. She had initiated him into a world whose dimension he had hardly imagined before. But he did not care to do that to another person. He had no concern about any injury from Neysa; she would never hurt him. She would just quietly take herself away, and off a mountain ledge, and never transform into a firefly. She would spare him, not herself. It was her way.

Kurrelgyre’s question was valid: why couldn’t Stile remain here? There was a threat against his life, true—but he had fled Proton because of that, too. If he could nullify that threat in this frame—well, there were appeals to this world that rivaled those of the Game.

In fact, magic itself had, for him, a fascination similar to—no! His oath made that academic.

What, then, of Sheen? He could not simply leave her in doubt. He must return at least long enough to ex-plain. She was a robot; she would understand. The practical thing for him to do was pick the most convenient world and stay there. It would be enough for Sheen to know he was safe; her mission would then have been accomplished.

As he had known Tune was safe and happy . . . Had that been enough for him? To know she had success-fully replaced his arms with those of another man, and given that man in fact what she had given Stile in name: a son? He had understood, and Sheen would understand—but was that enough?

Yet what else could he do? He could not remain in both frames, could he? In any event, his tenure on Pro-ton was limited, while it seemed unlimited here.

Stile returned to Neysa and sat beside her, Kurrel-gyre trailing. “The werewolf has shown me that I can not expect to solve my problems by fleeing them. I must remain here to find my destiny, only visiting the other frame to conclude mine affairs there.” As he said it, he wished he had chosen other phrasing.

Neysa responded by lifting her gaze. That was enough.

“Now for thee, werewolf,” Stile said. “We must solve thy riddle too. Did it occur to thee that the Blue thou must cultivate could be an Adept?”

Now Kurrelgyre was stricken. “Cultivate an Adept?

Rather would I remain forever outcast!”

“But if the Oracle is always right—“

“That may be. I asked how to restore myself to my pack; the Oracle answered. Perhaps the necessary price is too high.”

“Yet thou also didst specify that the method not violate thy conscience.”

“My conscience will not permit my craven catering to the abomination that is an Adept!”

“Then it must be something else. Some other blue. A field of blue flowers—“

“Werewolves are not farmers!” Kurrelgyre cried indignantly. “It must be the Blue Adept; yet the only cultivation I could do without shame would be the turf over his grave. I shall not seek the Blue Adept.”

Stile considered. “If, as we fear, thou hast doomed thyself to remain outcast from thy kind—why not travel with me? I have decided to remain in this frame, but this is pointless unless I locate and nullify the threat against my life—and that threat surely relates to who and what I am. Without magic with which to defend myself, I shall likely be in need of protection.”

“The lady unicorn is capable of protecting thee ably enough.”

“From the ill favor of an Adept?”

Kurrelgyre paced the ground. “Now, if I refuse, I brand myself coward.”

“No, no! I did not mean to imply—“

“Thou hardly needst to. But also I doubt the mare would care to have the like of me along, and I would not impose—“

Neysa stood. She took Kurrelgyre’s hand, glanced briefly into his eyes, then turned away.

The werewolf faced Stile. “Neysa has a way with words! It seems outcasts had best support each other, though they be natural enemies. We all shall likely die, and for a foolish cause—but it is as fitting a mode as any.”

CHAPTER 12 - Black

“Who is the closest Adept?” Stile asked. “Not the Blue; we won’t check that one if you’re along.”

Kurrelgyre shifted to wolf-form and sniffed the breeze. He shifted back. “The Black, methinks.”

“Black it is!” Stile agreed. He would have preferred a more scientific selection—but science was not, it seemed, trustworthy in this frame. Convenience would have to do.