Arena (3 page)
“So what’s the problem?” Meg repeated.
“I don’t know. Just . . . well, there
are
things that don’t make sense around here.”
“Like what?”
“The money. The equipment. Why anyone would be interested in such a dippy project.”
“It wouldn’t be the first dippy project a private foundation financed. Maybe they’re using it as a tax write-off.” Meg paused, studying her thoughtfully. “You don’t like it that they won’t tell you what to expect.”
“Not at all.”
Meg grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure, girl?” She leaned on both forearms. “So what do you think of Alex?”
“He’s cute enough, I guess.”
“Cute! Are you blind? He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s attractive, Meg, but no more than anyone else here. Not as much as some, in fact. And that’s another thing. There isn’t one ugly guy in this whole operation. Not one zit, not one speck of dandruff, not one head of less-than-lustrous hair. No one’s too fat or too skinny, or has buckteeth or clunky glasses. Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”
Meg’s green eyes widened. She shook her head. “I think
you’re
a little weird.”
“I’m serious, Meg—”
“They’re probably too old for zits—”
“Too
old?
Some of these guys have barely hit puberty. I doubt even Alex has to shave more than once a week.”
A crease formed between Meg’s brows. “So what’s your point? You think there’s something fishy going on because a few guys can’t grow beards? That the crazy guy was right, and they
are
a bunch of aliens?”
It did sound absurd, stated flat out like that.
“What do you think they’re going to do? Rape us? Kill us? Take us to Mars and perform weirdo examinations on us? Look around, girl. We’re in the middle of Psychology East, Room . . . I don’t know, 910 or something.”
Callie frowned at her.
Meg frowned back. “Your sister’s right. You
are
getting paranoid.”
That was the word for it, wasn’t it? Embarrassed, Callie tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Never mind.”
“Callie—”
“No, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. Forget it.”
She focused on the questionnaire. Alex hadn’t exaggerated—it
was
long. Two hundred multiple-choice questions filled both sides of the two legal sheets, covering all manner of preferences, from food to climate to religion. She found them depressing, for they reminded her of all the ways she was failing at life and what a total wimp she had become.
Meg finished first and left to turn in her sheets. Some time later Callie submitted her own sheets, then followed the attendant to a windowless cubicle that smelled of ozone. A small Formica-topped table, two plastic chairs, and a tall blue locker comprised the room’s furnishings. She sat at the table and waited, feeling claustrophobic and fighting off unpleasant notions of alien kidnappers.
Surely
, she reassured herself,
if Alex and his crew really were kidnapping people, they wouldn’t let that
nutcase wander around warning everyone
.
The door swung open, startling her, and Alex entered with a blue nylon day pack, which he dropped on the table. “So,” he said, settling across from her, “Meg tells me you’re an artist.”
She looked away, embarrassed. “It’s just a hobby.”
“But one you’d like to see become a career.”
“That doesn’t look likely.”
He smiled. “Life has a way of changing rapidly, often when you least expect it.”
She shifted uncomfortably.
He unzipped the day pack’s top compartment. “This holds everything you’ll need to—”
“What do we need a pack for, if the course is going to be virtual reality?”
He cocked a brow. “Who said anything about virtual reality?”
“If there are different obstacles for each individual, I figure they must be computer generated.”
“Oh.”
She frowned at him. “You don’t have room up here for a limitless array of real obstacles.”
“You seem to know more about what we’re doing than we do.”
Annoyance flared. “Well, if it’s not virtual reality, what is it?”
“A course with various obstacles—some decisions to make, instructions to follow. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
She frowned at him again, tapping a fingernail on the table. Baby-faced researchers, science-fiction technology, secrecy and evasion. Her fears might be unfounded, even paranoid, but every fiber of Callie’s being was screaming at her to beware. And now that it looked like she wouldn’t be with Meg anyway, what was the point of staying? Was it really worth the fifty dollars?
She drew a deep breath and stopped tapping. “I think I’d like to withdraw. I just can’t go into this blind. I’m sorry for wasting your time, but if you’ll return my—”
“Unfortunately that’s not possible.”
She stared at him.
“Miss Hayes, you didn’t come here because of your friend. You came for yourself. Why not give yourself the chance to find the answers you’re seeking?”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s not possible’?”
Alex sighed. “I’m afraid you’ve already entered the experiment. Your only way out now is through the Arena.”
She blinked in confusion.
He drew a slim black book from the pack. “This is your field manual. You’ll need it to find the exit.”
He’s not going to let me go
.
“I advise you to heed its warnings,” he went on, “for there is—”
She stood and strode to the door. Alex made no move to stop her, and in the three steps it took her to reach it, she realized it must be locked. Clenching the unmoving knob, she struggled to control her rising panic and finally turned back to him.
“You can’t do this,” she whispered.
He regarded her with something like compassion. “You did agree to take part, Miss Hayes.”
“I agreed to inkblots and fitting pegs into holes.”
“You knew it would be an obstacle course when you signed on.”
“No legitimate experimenter ever refuses his participants the right to back out. It’s not even legal.”
“We operate by a different legal system. Surely you read the waiver you signed?”
She stared at him mutely. Yes, she’d read it, but not that closely, not all the paragraphs of fine print. And shouldn’t they have made it plain to her what she was signing?
Continued protest, however, seemed useless. Perhaps if she refused to listen to his instructions, refused to pick up the equipment, refused even to look at him—she shifted her gaze to the blue locker—he would conclude she was too much trouble and let her go.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him frowning.
“Refusal to accept our instruction is itself a decision which our experiment is designed to incorporate,” Alex said. “We will not suffer, nor will the project, but you will find the experience disagreeable.”
She looked steadfastly at the locker.
“Miss Hayes, if you continue to refuse me, I’ll have no choice but to deposit you on-site, utterly unprepared.”
She said nothing.
He sighed. “Your initial objective will be to pass through the Benefactor’s Gate. A guide will lead you from it to the exit. As long as you follow the instructions, you’ll have no trouble.”
She maintained silence. He went on, but she tuned him out. The remark about depositing her on-site had unnerved her. Surely, he was bluffing. . . .
Then it hit her—illegal as this was, they could never just let her go. They’d have to kill her, or wipe her memory, or addle her mind.
Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Swallowing hard, she interrupted him. “Why are you doing this?”
His expression was genuinely pained. “You’ll understand in time,” he said. “The white road will lead you to the Gate. Stay on it and keep moving. That’s very important. There is evil in the Arena. But as long as you stay on the road, it cannot harm you.”
He stood and stepped toward her, offering the pack. She backed away, and he stopped with a sigh. “We intend this for your benefit, Callie. You’ve come to us because you don’t like where your life is going. You want something better. Don’t let fear and stubbornness keep you from finding it.”
He held out the pack again. She backed against the door, half angry, wholly terrified. What would he do now?
Make
her take it?
He just stared sadly into her eyes. And vanished.
The pack fell to the floor with a muffled clatter, and she flinched back, gasping. Before understanding could sink in, the table, chairs, and locker followed him into oblivion. Then the cubicle’s four white walls pulsed with red light and drew in around her. Just when she thought she would be crushed, they too dissolved, and she fell into nothingness.
The world came back to Callie all at once. She stood in a circular, glass-walled shelter with a slatted wood roof. It was surrounded closely on three sides by the red rock walls of a small grotto. The air smelled damp, and water trickled behind her.
She turned numbly, heart slamming against her breastbone.
“I’ll have no choice but to deposit you on-site, utterly unprepared.”
He’d really done it.
Beyond the glass at the grotto’s rear, a dark pool gleamed beneath the moisture-blackened rock and a mat of ferns and grasses. To its left, tucked between the cliff and the glass, stood a ten-foot-tall fountain of long, tough, swordlike leaves resembling the South American pampas grass widely used in Tucson landscaping designs. Except the leaves of this plant were segmented. And appeared to be made of glass. And bristled with golden spines. A raft of them spilled across the roof slats overhead, quivering in the still air, and Callie thought she heard a faint chiming. Needle pricks raced the length of her spine, and she didn’t need a botanist’s manual to tell her this bizarre cross between a cactus and a grass was not from the world she knew.
Impossible!
She turned away and saw the sign—blue letters floating in the glass wall:
D
ROP-OFF
P
OINT
24
Proceed along path
to your right.
Below this hung a transparent ten-inch cube, marked on the side nearest her with three gold circles arrayed around a central point of light. A path, made of the same white sponge as the shelter floor, led to the grotto’s mouth thirty feet away, where it disappeared around the rock.
A trembling began in Callie’s fingers, light and fluttery.
She executed another slow spin. The trembling spread to her arms and shoulders, stuttered across her back. Her legs turned to water, and she sagged to the floor, catching her head in her hands. Eyes closed, she forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another.
When she felt solid again, she lifted her head. The plant was still there, along with the sign and the transparent box. Drug-induced hallucinations, perhaps? Computer-generated virtual reality? Maybe she was actually sitting in a lab, encased in electronic hookups. But surely she would have some recollection of being hooked up, some awareness of gloves and helmet. Surely it wouldn’t seem so . . . real.
And it couldn’t be real. Because if it were—
Her thoughts raced.
The hall outside the elevator that ran the wrong way, the weird organ
scanner, the men who looked too young and had no beards—who vanished
into thin air.
Who weren’t men at all
.
The bright lights were back. She fought them off, forcing herself to face the truth.
They were aliens.
A roil of conflicting emotions swelled—fear, anger, and a sense of helplessness that shook the foundations of her being. Control, organization, and planning—these were the tenets by which she lived. She didn’t believe in flitting about impulsively. She made lists of goals and tasks, kept neat and careful calendars, and always considered the consequences of her actions, thereby avoiding dangerous and unpleasant situations.
Yet somehow she’d been ripped from her safe, secure life and transported to this alien place to fulfill some . . .
alien
purpose.
She had read about such things in science-fiction novels. She had even seen a TV show with wild-eyed people talking about being kidnapped by aliens—hokey stuff that belonged on the front page of supermarket tabloids.
Suddenly it was her life.
Even as it terrified her, the notion outraged her. She was no slave to be snatched up at their whim. How dare they! Maybe she’d just sit here and wait them out. If all their subjects did that, they wouldn’t have much of an experiment.
But all their subjects wouldn’t.
Her stomach churned. Most subjects wouldn’t realize what they had gotten into until it was too late. Meg was probably going along right now, following instructions, never realizing she had no choice.
But
I
don’t have to go along. If I refuse to move, they’ll have to release
me eventually
.
Alex’s words returned.
“Your only way out now is through the
Arena.”
Maybe he was bluffing. But could she gamble her life on it? What was to stop them from simply killing uncooperative participants? Or letting their arena do it?
“There is evil in the Arena. . . .”
Callie hugged herself, sick and fearful all over again. Her gaze dropped to the blue day pack at her knee.
“This holds everything you’ll
need. . . .”
Unfair. Outrageous. Horrid.
She gritted her teeth—hating the direction reason was taking her— and yanked the pack into her lap.
The first thing she drew out was the field manual Alex had shown her earlier. Its black cover was inscribed with three gold interlocking circles and her name. She set it on the rubbery floor and reached into the bag again, pulling out a handful of black rubber donuts, wire half circles, and small turquoise cubes. She also found numerous abstractly shaped ceramic pieces—blue, orange, red, and clear—some only a few centimeters wide, while others filled her palm.
“My equipment, huh?” she muttered, certain Alex was listening. “Everything I’ll need, you say. I just have to put it together, right?”
Across from her, the weird plant chimed as if in answer. She glanced up, frowning. Had there been that many arms pressed against the glass before? Probably. She was looking at it from a different angle now.
