Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [90]
—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