Girl in the Arena (27 page)

—But you’re the guy who’s signing up to fight 
in 
the system.

—I can live with this dichotomy. He smiles.

I punch Spider-Man emblazoned across his T-shirt. —You’re so strange, I say.

—That’s why you can’t live without me. Okay, let’s see what we can do.

*

I tiptoe upstairs, take a peek at Thad sleeping soundly, and grab my computer. Back in the kitchen, I show Mark my fortified avatar. I’ve glued in one of my face shots.

—Nice. But you couldn’t get the spear out?

—Not really.

—We’ll deal with that later. I was up all night figuring this out. Where’s the Living machine?

—I got a couple of the security guards to help me bring it downstairs. I locked it in the weapons room so Thad wouldn’t mess with it.

—Perfect.

I unlock the door and I’m almost blinded by the light streaming in through the windows, glinting off the wall where the shields hang. Mark has two computers and a bunch of cords and cables and extra hard drives and God knows what all. He begins to set things up. Within an hour, we have my virtual self standing by one of the sword racks, swaying a little at the hips as if she’s trying to get her balance for the first time. She blinks several times and then tries out a variety of expressions like an actor warming up for a performance.

—She’s so disconcerting and wonderful, I say.

—Good outfit, he says, running his palm along his goatee.

—
Hello
, she says, in a voice designed to make us feel like complete idiots. —You can talk directly to me, you know.

But I don’t know where to start.

—We brought you here for a mission, Mark says, like he’s prepping 007 for his next assignment. He’s just eating this up.

—I don’t do 
missions
, she says, and takes a seat where Tommy used to fasten his sandals. The spear that goes through her chest comes out the back of the chair.

—Right, I say. —What Mark is trying to explain is that you’ll be fighting at Romulus Arena, as part of a Gladiator Sports Association event next month. We appreciate your help.

—I know what the GSA is, but I didn’t realize you wanted me to 
fight. 
I’m a pacifist.

I bite my lower lip and look at Mark.

—You want me to get all the glitches out in twenty-four hours? he asks.

—If anything happens to you, we’ll simply put you back together again. So you don’t have to worry about that, Mark says.

—So it’s okay if I get sliced and diced. Great. And my opponent? she says.

—We just want you to spar a little. We’re going to try and keep you in the match the whole time, and we’ll do everything we can to protect you, I say.

But once again I’m feeling queasy about the whole thing; inauthentic... virtual.

—That doesn’t tell me 
whom 
I’m fighting.

I ask Mark, —Am I always this difficult?

—You think I’m taking that bait? he laughs, tipping back in his chair.

—She asked a pretty straightforward question, 
Lyn 
says.

—I have an idea, I say, addressing her. —Why don’t you see if you can pull the spear out of your chest.

She looks down at the spear. —I think it gives me a certain... I don’t know... it’s like an outer manifestation of my internal wounds.

—This is definitely not me, I say.

—I’ll make you a deal, 
Lyn 
says. —I’m willing to lose the spear if you give me back my wings. I’m not kidding. I feel naked without them.

—They’re too... lingerie ad, Mark says. —No one will take you seriously.

—You think so? she asks, giving this serious consideration.

—We’re getting off track, I say. —Why don’t we go out to the living room and see if we can spar?

—Good idea, Mark says. —
Lyn
?

—Can I have my pick of swords? she asks, eyeing the racks.

—Uh no, I say. —Mark and I are going to supply you with a Living sword and shield.

—Which means I can’t really hurt anyone... which means I’m still a fully-aligned pacifist, which means this is a completely stupid exercise, which leads me to this question: why are we doing this?

—To save a couple of lives, I say.

—Oh, well, she says soberly. —Then I guess I’m your woman. I’ve always wanted to save lives.

Maybe she feels some alignment with superheroes? She puts her hands around the spear, as if she’s gripping a rope for tug-of-war; then she rips the spear from her chest, and lets out this agonized sound.

I watch the blood ooze from the open wound.

—It should spurt more when she does that, Mark says. —We can work on that later.

—Can you get me some paper towels? 
Lyn 
asks.

I direct 
Lyn 
out to the living room, where I bring paper towels, which of course absorb nothing since there’s nothing to absorb, and while I’m at it I grab one of the lighter swords with a small shield for myself.

Mark figures out a way to transport a sword and shield to 
Lyn
, and both of us begin to look the part.

—We better keep the volume down, I say. —Thad’s sleeping.

I go off to the library and change into an outfit identical to 
Lyn’s
. The real difference, again, is something in the eyes. That’s what Mark says. I think he’s kind of freaked the way I am, though freaked for Mark is a cool thing.

As 
Lyn 
and I face each other, the blood continues to trickle down her abs and runs down one leg and seems to drip into the carpet, but leaves no mark. We take up our swords.

i know not what i do.

—You sure I can’t get hurt? I ask Mark.

—As sure as I’ll ever be, he says, typing something into one of the computers.

—That’s reassuring. Um, 
Lyn
, would you mind making a small cut on one of my fingers?

Lyn 
draws her sword over my outstretched index finger. The only thing I feel is warm air, as if someone has just blown on my finger. No blood.

—When I get this right, fake blood will appear where you’ve been cut. So, let’s see you mix it up, he says.

Before I get my shield up, 
Lyn 
whips her sword into the air in a circular motion and slices right through my neck. If she had had a real weapon, and kept it as sharp as Tommy’s blades, I would now be headless.

—You have to let Lyn have the upper hand, Mark says to my avatar. —And if you have to cut, go easy.

—I was just kidding, 
Lyn 
says. —You should have seen your expression.

I’m starting to feel queasy, but I know we have to make some progress and get her back in the machine before Thad wakes up.

—You’re going to be fighting Uber, I say. —He’s left-handed, so you have to be prepared for that. Maybe I should use a left-handed shield and sword so you can get the feel of this.

Lyn 
flops down on the couch. —I can’t do this.

Mark and I give each other a look.

—I have feelings for Uber, 
Lyn 
says. —Though I know I shouldn’t, because of Tommy and all.

—You programmed her to have feelings for Uber? I ask.

—Don’t you? Mark asks, tucking his hands up under his T-shirt.

They both stare at me, waiting for an answer. I can’t believe Mark is doing this.

—He’s actually a decent guy. It’s just... well, you know.

Mark gives me this look.

—Stop, I say. —Look, 
Lyn
, if Uber and you fight, and don’t 
really 
hurt each other, it will be his last fight and you’ll never have to fight again, and we’re doing all of this for Thad. So you see, you want to fight but not 
fight.

—I’d do anything for Thad, she says. —Wow, I’m getting such a bad headache.

—Maybe your armor is too tight around your neck, I say.

—Just try working with your shields for a while, Mark nudges.

So Lyn and I stand again, and we make an effort at shield strategy. Only the strange thing is, there’s no sound when her shield hits mine.

—This is too weird, 
Lyn 
says. —It’s so noiseless.

—But you look great. I’ll get the audio portion going, Mark says.

Just then, I hear Thad call out.

—Mom! he shouts down the stairs. —Mom, I’m hungry!

*

Two days later Caesar’s spokeswoman, Sappho, appears on a round of talk and interview shows starting with Jon Stewart to let the world know Uber and I will be squaring off in the Romulus Arena in a little less than a month. She says that we are both in training and will not give official interviews until a few days before the match. She emphasizes the choice of combat over marriage. She goes on at length about Thad, his special needs, and his sister’s desire to take care of him at any cost.

Jon says, —Sounds like Juliet is turning on Romeo.

—Well, Jon, it is a fight to the death.

—But didn’t Juliet fake her own death? Jon points out.

—Maybe we’re taking the metaphor too far, she says with a smile. —Glad fans aren’t looking for irony. They’re looking for a fair fight, they’re looking for skill in the arena.

—Both of your opponents are eighteen or older, that’s right, isn’t it?

—Yes, Jon. If you can join the military, you can fight for the GSA.

—So you have two young, fit, and I assume, bright people—though some question their smarts in entering this competition—who have their whole lives before them, and your organization, Caesar’s Inc., thinks it’s acceptable for one of them to die, maybe the other to be crippled for life.

—I don’t need to tell you that gladiator sport is deeply embedded in our culture as an acceptable form of competition. But you might not recall that the founders hoped it would someday replace military combat. We still hold out this hope for the future.

—The pundits I’m hearing from say this will be more watched than the Olympics. But it’s also the most contested fight Caesar’s has ever presented. You’ve stirred up activist groups around the world. It could mean, ultimately, the end of gladiator sport. I quote this from the 
Los Angeles Times
: “This may well be the maiden voyage of Caesar’s very own 
Titanic
.”

—Great way to sell a newspaper, don’t you think, Jon?

—So you believe this statement is more about hype than reality?

—You know what’s real for most people, Jon? That we have steadily rising unemployment, people are losing their homes, and some say we’re in an economic depression, and now some excitable types want to take away their right to see legalized entertainment.

—But is it fair? We now turn to...

I can’t imagine a worse feeding frenzy. If Thad were to go into a supermarket with me, he would find himself on all sorts of magazine covers. If I’d let him watch the general fare on TV, he’d realize that everyone knows, or thinks they know, a young boy named Thad G., Tommy and Allison’s son—the world’s new orphan.

Along with the guards the Ludus sends over and the two bodyguards Caesar’s posted a while back, Caesar’s threatens to provide even more personal bodyguards, but I decline, worried that they’ll make it their business to spy on us as much as protect us. I try to leave the house as little as possible now. I hire a nanny named Sheryl to help with Thad. She seems like a perfectly nice woman in her early thirties, slim and poised, though her tweed skirts annoy me. After a day, I realize she’s constantly chipper and chronically making suggestions about changing Thad’s schedule, what he eats, how much exercise he gets. She tells me she had a cousin with special needs growing up, so she 
knows
.

But Thad wails like a factory siren if I try to do anything without him, so against my better judgment I let him dress in his gladiator outfit and sit in the covered bleachers of the Ludus Magnus Americus while I spar with Mark or one of the female Glads. Sheryl, peeling the wrappers on his Freeway bars up in the bleachers, makes sure he keeps his fluid intake up in the heat.

Julie is barely talking to me now and doesn’t have much to say to Lloyd, for that matter. When Mark isn’t at the arena, he devotes himself to the world of my alter ego, and though Julie doesn’t know what he’s up to, he reports that she seems pleased to have him around the apartment more.

One night I arrange to have Sheryl stay over so I can get away. When Thad drops off, Mark and I drive the Living machine over to the stadium in his van. It takes two hours to lose the paparazzi with a friend of Mark’s driving a decoy van. But we have to try 
Lyn 
out in the arena. We set up the machine in an old storage room just a few feet from where the competitions occur and Mark rigs up this miniaturized modem in some kind of protective shell under the sand where we’ll be fighting, so she’ll have the strongest possible signal.

When 
Lyn 
appears and the icons above her head light up and then hide themselves, it’s as if she’s just woken from a long nap, stretching and yawning. One of Mark’s little touches.

We both gear up and get in position. She strikes first and our swords clang loudly.

—Good sound, I call out to Mark.

But while I’m turned she delivers a blow to my sword arm, and Mark tells me to look down. Some strange almost phosphorous red substance stains my arm.

—Weird, I say.

—Not as weird as you, she says.

—No, I...  I start to say, but she’s coming at me again. I cut her right cheek.

Soon I understand that 
Lyn 
will appear to spurt or slowly bleed in proper measure depending on the injury. Again I see something like blood sprout up from my wounds, though there’s no actual wound.

—The blood is amazing. You’ve done an incredible job.

—But? Mark asks.

—I wasn’t going to say anything.

—There’s something about the way she pivots at the hips, he says. —And the way she raises her arms and the turns are more like rotations.

—Everything else looks pretty natural, I say.

—She’s as good as she’s going to get, I’m afraid.

When we pause between trials, I notice that she flirts heavily with Mark and that he doesn’t seem to mind this too much. In fact you could say he laughs easily with her.