“For this will I visit a conflagration on the Demesnes of every Adept involved!” Stile said, finding his voice at last. “On every creature who cooperated. I will level mountains to get at them. What the Blue Adept did to the trolls and jackals shall be as nothing.” Already the air was becoming charged with the force of his developing oath; dark coils of fog were swirling. “Only let me make my music, find my rhyme—”
“Nay, Adept,” the Herd Stallion said gruffly. “He is of my herd. Not thine but mine is this vengeance.”
“But thou canst not leave thy herd unguarded,” Stile protested.
“Another Stallion will assist, for this occasion.”
“And thou canst not face Adepts alone. Only an Adept can oppose an Adept.”
The Stallion snorted smoke from his human nostrils, heeding Stile’s caution through his fury. “True. Not alone can I accomplish it. Only half the vengeance is mine to claim.”
“Just give me a steed, and I will—”
“I will be thy steed!” the Stallion said.
Neysa, on the ground, perked up her ears. The Lady Blue’s eyes widened as she recognized the possibilities. No human being had ever ridden a Herd Stallion, virtually a breed apart. Yet if the power of an Adept coordinated with that of a unicorn Stallion—
Stile could not decline. They shared a vengeance.
CHAPTER 8
Wager
“So I have most of twenty-four hours in Proton,” Stile said to Sheen, “before the Stallion and I commence our mission of rescue and vengeance. I’ll have to spend some of that time in sleep, gathering my strength. I trust you have my business here well organized.”
“We do,” she agreed brightly. “Mellon has lined up a number of wealthy Citizens who are eager to wipe you out financially. My friends have worked out a way to trace the original message to Citizen Kalder—but only you, an interested Citizen, can implement it. And there is reaction approaching suppressed riot to the news of the designation of your heir.”
“That’s enough to start on,” Stile said. “Maybe it will distract me for the moment from my real concern in Phaze. Let’s see how much we can sandwich in. I don’t know how long my next adventure in Phaze will hold me.”
“Perhaps forever,” she said darkly. Then, mechanically, she reverted to immediate business. “Start on which, sir? You can’t do everything at once.”
“Why not?”
“The bettors are in the Stellar Lounge, as before. The panel for your heir-designation hearing is in another dome, a hundred kilometers distant. And the first obscurity in the message chain is at a dome fifty kilometers beyond that, in the private property of a Citizen. Any one of these situations can monopolize your available time.”
“You think too much like a machine,” he chided her. “Take me to the hearing. Meanwhile, call the Stellar Lounge.”
Frowning, she set the travel capsule in motion and placed the call. Mellon appeared in three-dimensional image. “So good to see you, sir. May I notify the Citizens that you are ready for action?”
“Do so,” Stile said. “But advise them that I have unusual and challenging bets in mind and will welcome them at the site of my heir-designation hearing. You be there too.”
“Yes, sir.” Mellon faded out.
Immediately there was an incoming call. It was Citizen Merle. “My intercept notified me you were back in town,” she said brightly. “Have you considered my invitation of the morning?”
Not this again! “Merle, I remain flattered. But there are things you should know.”
“About your lovely wife in the other frame? Stile, that has no force in Proton.”
“About my engagement to the serf Sheen, here,” Stile said, unpleased about Merle’s conversance with his private life. Too many Citizens were learning too much about him.
“Yes, I mean to place a bet on the outcome of your hearing,” Merle agreed. “I’m rooting for you, Stile; I’m betting you will gain approval, after a struggle. Citizens are by no means limited in their liaisons. I have gifted my husband with a number of fine concubines, and he has sent me whichever males he suspects will appeal to my tastes. In any event, you need have no concern about the feelings of a serf.”
Stile suffered an explosive reaction of anger. Sheen made an urgent signal: do not offend this Citizen!
Then Stile had a tactical inspiration. “Merle, I do care about the feelings of this serf. I was until very recently a serf myself. Until I have a better notion of her willingness to share, I can not give you a decision.”
Merle smiled. “Oh, I do like you, little man! You are like a splendid fish, fighting the line. I shall be in touch with you anon.” She faded.
“Sir, I never denied you the right to—” Sheen began.
“Secure our privacy!” he snapped.
She adjusted the communication controls. “Secure, sir.”
“Then why are you calling me sir?”
“Stile, our relationship has changed. We are no longer even nominally members of the same society, and I prefer to recognize that in the established way. Sir.”
“You’re mad at me?”
“A machine can not be angry, sir.”
Fat chance! “Sheen, you know that our marriage is one of convenience. I’m doing it to give your friends leverage in their suit for recognition. The upcoming hearing will be a crucial step. If we prevail there, it will be a big stride forward for your kind. I do like you, in fact I love you—but the Lady Blue will always hold the final key to my heart.”
“I understand, sir.” Her face was composed.
“So being faithful to you, in this frame, is moot,” he continued, wishing she would show more of the emotion he knew she felt, “It is the Lady Blue I am faithful to. But aside from that, there is the matter of appearances. If I am engaged to you, but have liaisons with fleshly women—especially Citizens—that could be taken as evidence that I am marrying you in name only, to designate a convenient heir, and that could destroy the leverage we hope to gain.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed noncommittally.
“So there is no way I will make an assignation with Merle. If I do that with anyone in this frame, it will be you. Because you are my fiancée, and because there is no one in this frame I would rather do it with. So, in that sense, I am true to you. I wanted to be sure you understand.”
“I understand, sir. There is no need to review it.”
So he hadn’t persuaded her. “Yes, I needed to review it. Because now I have it in mind to do something extremely cynical. An act worthy of a true Citizen. And I need your help.”
“You have it, sir.”
“I want you to have your friends arrange a blind bet on the outcome of Merle’s suit. An anonymous, coded bet amounting to my entire available net worth at the time of decision—that I will not complete that liaison. I will of course deny any intent to make that liaison, but I may at times seem to waver. You and I know the outcome, but other Citizens may wish to bet the other way. It would be a foolish bet for them—but they seem to like such foolishness.”
Sheen smiled. “That is indeed cynical, sir. I shall see to it.”
“And it would not hurt if you permitted yourself some trifling show of jealousy, even if you feel none.”
She paused. “You are devious, sir.”
“I have joined a devious society. Meanwhile, I shall remain on the fence with Merle, in all but words, as long as I can stimulate interest. See that Mellon is privately notified; he definitely has the need to know.”
The capsule arrived at the dome of the hearing. They emerged into a white-columned court, floored with marble, spacious and airy as a Greek ruin. Three Citizens sat behind an elevated desk. A fourth Citizen stood before the desk, evidently with another case; Stile’s turn had not yet come.
The betting Citizens were arriving. A rotund man garbed like a Roman senator approached, hand extended. “Greeting, Stile. I am Waldens, and I’m interested in your offer. What is its nature?”
&nb
sp; “Thank you, Waldens. I am about to face a hearing on the validity of my designation of my fiancée, a humanoid robot, as my heir to Citizenship. I proffer a wager as to the panel’s decision.”
“Most interesting!” Waldens agreed. “I doubt they will approve the designation.”
“I am prepared to wager whatever my financial adviser will permit, that they will approve it,” Stile said. “It is, after all, a Citizen’s right to designate whom he pleases.”
“Ah, yes—but a robot is not a ‘whom’ but an ‘it.’ Only recognized people can inherit Citizenship.”
“Is there a law to that effect?”
“Why, I assume so. It is certainly custom.”
Now Mellon arrived. Stile quickly acquainted him with the situation. “How much will you let me bet?” he asked, knowing that Mellon, as a self-willed machine in touch with the network of his kind, would have a clear notion of the legalistic background.
But the serf hesitated. “Sir, this is an imponderable. The decision of the panel is advisory, without binding force. If there is a continuing challenge, a formal court will be convened—”
“Come off it, serf!” Waldens snapped. “We’re only betting on this particular decision. What the court does later will be grist for another wager. How much Protonite can Stile afford to risk?”
“He has limited me to one hundred grams,” Stile said, catching Sheen’s covert affirmative signal. That meant the machines had researched the issue, and believed the odds were with Stile. He should win this bet. But he was going to play it carefully.
“A hundred grams!” Waldens laughed. “I did not come all the way here in person for such minor action!”
“I regret that my estate is as yet minimal,” Stile said. “But it is growing; I have won all bets made so far. I assure you that I have an appetite for larger bets—when I can afford them. I plan to increase my estate enormously.”
“All right, Stile. You’re peanuts, but I like your spirit. Should be good entertainment here. I’ll play along with a small bet now—but I’ll expect a big one later, if you’re in shape for it. Shall we compromise at half a kilo now?”
Mellon looked pained, but under Walden’s glare he slowly acquiesced. “Half a kilogram of Protonite,” Stile agreed, putting on a pale face himself. Five hundred grams was half the ransom of a Citizen, and more than half Stile’s entire available amount for betting. His fortune stood at 1,219 grams, but he had to hold 250 for living expenses. What he was laying on the line now was enough to buy a hundred sophisticated robots like Sheen and Mellon, or to endow the tenure of five hundred serfs. All in a single bet—which his opponent considered to be a minor figure, a nuisance indulged in only for entertainment!
Meanwhile, other Citizens had arrived, intrigued by the issue. Novelty was a precious commodity among those who had everything. Two paired off, taking the two sides with matching half-kilo bets. Two more bet on whether there would be an immediate appeal of the panel’s recommendation, whatever it was. Citizens certainly loved to gamble!
The prior case cleared, and it was Stile’s turn before the panel. “It has been brought to our attention that you propose to designate a humanoid robot as your heir to Citizenship,” the presiding Citizen said. “Do you care to present your rationale?”
Stile knew this had to be good. These were not objective machines but subjective people, which was why there could be no certainty about the decision. The wrong words could foul it up. “I am a very recent Citizen, whose life has been threatened by calamitous events; I am conscious of my mortality and wish to provide for the continuation of my estate. Therefore I have designated as my heir the person who is closest to me in Proton: my prospective wife, the Lady Sheen, here.” He indicated Sheen, who cast her eyes down demurely. “She happens to be a lady robot. As you surely know, robots are sophisticated today; she is hardly distinguishable from a living person in ordinary interactions. She can eat and sleep and initiate complex sequences. She can even evince bad temper.”
“The typical woman,” the presiding Citizen agreed with a brief smile. “Please come to the point.”
“Sheen has saved my life on more than one occasion, and she means more to me than any other person here. I have made her my chief of staff and am satisfied with the manner in which she is running my estate. I want to make our association more binding. Unless there is a regulation preventing the designation of one’s wife as one’s heir, I see no problem.”
The three panelists deliberated. “There is no precedent,” the presiding Citizen said. “No one has designated a robot before. Machines do well enough as staff members, concubines, stand-ins, and such, but seldom is one married and never have we had a nonhuman Citizen.”
“If an alien creature won the Tourney one year, would it be granted Citizenship?” Stile asked.
“Of course. Good point,” the Citizen said, nodding. “But robots are not permitted to participate in the Game, so can not win the Tourney.”
“Do you mean to tell me that a frog-eyed, tentacular mass of slime from the farthest wash of the galaxy can be a Citizen—but this woman can not?” Stile demanded, again indicating Sheen.
The Citizens of the panel and of the group of bettors looked at Sheen, considering her as a person. She stood there bravely, smooth chin elevated, green eyes bright, her light brown hair flowing down her backside. Her face and figure were exquisitely female. There was even a slight flush at her throat. She had been created beautiful; in this moment she was splendid.
“But a robot has no human feeling,” another panelist said.
“How many Citizens do?” Stile asked.
The bettors laughed. “Good shot!” Waldens muttered.
The panelists did not respond to the humor. “A robot has no personal volition,” the presiding Citizen said. “A robot is not alive.”
This was awkward territory. Stile had promised not to give away the nature of the self-willed machines, who did indeed have personal volition. But he saw a way through.
“Sheen is a very special robot, the top of her class of machine,” he said. “Her brain is half digital, half analog, much as is the human brain, figuratively. Two hemispheres, with differing modes of operation. She approximates human consciousness and initiative as closely as a machine can. She has been programmed to resemble a living woman in all things, to think of herself as possessing the cares and concerns of life. She believes she has feeling and volition, because this is the nature of her program and her construction.” As he spoke, he remembered his first discussion with Sheen on this subject, before he discovered the frame of Phaze. He had chided her on her illusion of consciousness, and she had challenged him to prove he had free will. She had won her point, and he had come to love her as a person—a robot person. He had tended to forget, since his marriage to the Lady Blue, how deep his feeling for Sheen was. Now he was swinging back to her. He truly believed she was a real person, whose mechanism happened to differ from his own but resulted in the same kind of personality.
“Many creatures have illusions,” a panelist remarked. “This is no necessary onus for Citizenship.”
Stile saw that more would be required to overcome their prejudice. He would have to do a thing he did not like.
“Sheen, how do you feel about me?” he asked.
“I love you, sir,” she said.
“But you know I can not truly love a machine.”
“I know, sir.”
“And you are a machine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will marry you and designate you as my heir to Citizenship, but I will not love you as man to woman. You know it is a marriage of convenience.”
“I know, sir.”
“Why do you submit to this indignity?”
“Because she wants Citizenship!” a Citizen exclaimed. He was one of the ones betting against the acceptance of the heir designation.
Stile turned to the man. “How can a machine want?” Then he returned to Sheen. “Do you want Citizenship?” r />
“No, sir.”
“Then why do you accede to this arrangement?”
“Because your wife in Phaze asked me to.”
“Oh, a stand-in for an other-frame wife!” Waldens said knowingly. “Cast in her image?”
“No, sir, she is beautiful,” Sheen said. “I can never substitute for her.”
“I am interested,” the presiding panelist said. “Robot, are you capable of emotion? Do you feel, or think you feel? Do you want anything?”
“Yes, sir, to all three,” Sheen replied.
“Exactly what do you want, if not Citizenship?”
“I want Stile’s love, sir,” she said.
The panelist looked at his co-panelists. “Let the record note that the robot is crying.”
All the Citizens looked closely at Sheen. Her posture and expression had not changed, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Why would any woman, human or robot, cry in response to simple, straightforward questions?” a panelist asked.
Citizen Waldens stepped forward suddenly, putting his cloaked arm around Sheen’s shoulders. “For God’s sake! She is not on trial! Spare her this cruelty!”
The presiding panelist nodded sagely. “She weeps because she knows she can never have her love returned by the man she loves, no matter what else he gives her. Our questioning made this truth unconscionably clear, causing her to react as the woman she represents would act. I do not believe she was conscious of the tears, or that this is a detail that would have occurred to a man.” He pondered a moment, then spoke deliberately. “We of this panel are not without feeling ourselves. We are satisfied that this person, the robot Sheen, is as deserving of Citizenship as is a frog-eyed, tentacular mass of slime from the farthest wash of the galaxy.” He glanced at his co-panelists for confirmation. “We therefore approve the robot Sheen’s designation as heir, pending such decision as the court may make.”
The Citizens applauded politely. Waldens brought Sheen back to Stile. “I’m glad to lose that bet, Stile. She’s a good woman. Reminds me of my wife, when she was young and feeling. This robot deserves better than you are giving her.”