Arena

by Logan Jacobs

  Every eye in the room turned toward us as all motion came to a stop. It was as if the world held its breath, everything still and deathly quiet. I could sense hope, wonder, excitement, fear, and a longing for salvation coming from every person there as they stared at us. If it had been a moment in a movie, it would have had the audience holding its collective breath along with all the people in the “Sanctuary.” The John Williams score would swell with horns and strings, Michael Bay would do an awesome circular camera move as Megan Fox, wearing a soaking wet tank top and cut off jean shorts, would whisper, “Not on my watch, dammit.”

  The hero would step forward, stubbled jaw set in determination and say something like, “Did someone order a save the planet pizza, hold the doomsday?”

  And everyone would cheer, safe in the knowledge that their reluctant hero would move Heaven and Earth to save humanity. As I was about to step forward and deliver that line, which I thought was actually pretty damn good all things considered, the President grabbed my shoulder and ushered me into the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I present Marc Havak,” the President’s voice boomed in the silence. “Formerly a truck driver from Delaware, now Earth’s Champion in a fight to the death against impossible odds for the very survival of our planet. Personally, I think he’s going to be tremendous.”

  As the President finished speaking, the room broke into pure pandemonium as everyone began hurling questions at him while I just stood there. My mind reeled from the enormity of what the President had said. I was just a dude from Delaware who didn’t quite live up to his potential, not some ordained savior, defeater of evil, warrior for survival or whatever the hell you wanted to call those destined for greatness.

  Neither this fact nor the questions seemed to phase the President one bit. Instead of arguing with them or asking me to speak, he calmly led me over to the large table and motioned for me to sit. I plopped down into one of the oversized leather chairs, while the President sat down next to me on my right, and his daughter took the chair to my left.

  The woman from earlier was seated close to the President, and we stared at each other.

  “Okay,” the President said, and my attention snapped back to him, as he looked over the military men seated at the table. “Where do we stand on the timeline?”

  It took me a moment, but I as read the name placards in front of them that announced their names, rank, and branch of the military, I realized these were the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They were all in their late-forties to mid-sixties, highly decorated and wore stern, disapproving scowls.

  “Mr. President, we have thirty minutes left until the package has to be delivered,” the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a stuffy Navy Admiral, said in a measured, serious tone. “With all due respect, sir, I believe we need to discuss our alternatives.”

  “Alternatives to what, Admiral?” the President responded, his voice firm.

  The Joint Chief of the Army cleared his throat, glanced at the rest of the Joint Chiefs, and stood up. “Sir, we strongly urge against sending this … man to defend our planet,” he said with a twinge of frustration.

  “You have the wrong man, sir,” the Marine Corps Commandant added.

  “I never pick the wrong man,” the President answered with an edge to his voice that I had not heard before. “Our visitors were very specific in who we were to find, were they not, gentleman?”

  The members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest ranking members of each of their respective branches of the military, all looked like admonished school kids as the President stared at them for a few seconds, almost like he was saying, “Challenge me, I dare ya.” Eventually, the men on the other side of the table all looked away or down at the papers in front of them.

  “Besides,” the President broke the tension finally, his voice back to normal, “Marc here is a tremendous young man. We had a lovely chat on the helicopter ride over.”

  The eyes all settled on me again. I’d heard of the expression “undressing someone with your eyes,” but this was more like “crawling up my butt with a microscope and not liking what they see with their eyes.”

  “John, why don’t you bring Marc up to speed?” the President said to the General of the Air Force.

  “Um, yes, sir,” the General replied, clearly not used to being the one who had to follow orders anymore. “At approximately 1600 hours, Eastern Standard Time, a craft of unknown origin entered D.C. airspace directly above the Lincoln Memorial. One minute, there was nothing, the next, poof, there was the ship.”

  A video appeared on one of the LCD screens as if on cue. It was handheld cell phone footage of a tourist group posing for a picture in front of the memorial. One minute, everything was perfectly normal, just a run-of-the-mill tourist company snapping a shot to hand out as overpriced souvenirs at the end of the outing, the next, the sky above the memorial looked like it was being sucked into a drain. It twisted clockwise in a circle about one hundred feet in diameter, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until WHOOM! The liquid silver spaceship just appeared. Panic ensued on the ground underneath it. The footage jostled around amidst a tremendous amount of yelling then fell to its side on the ground, a discarded shoe the only thing filling the frame.

  I glanced at the woman who watched intently. I thought she might have been giggling but I couldn’t confirm because I got pulled back into the spaceship story.

  “Once the area was contained,” the General continued, “we secured a perimeter and began flying sorties of F-15s every ten minutes. Then, at 1630, this transmission broke into every secure, encrypted communication device we own, including a few that we hadn’t even gotten working yet.”

  The LCD screen flickered on again, static and white noise, filled the screen and then an alien face came into focus. It was vaguely humanoid in structure and layout with eyes, a mouth, and a void where the nose should have been. Its skin was a pale blue-green, smooth, and shiny. The head sat on top of an impossibly thin neck and seemed to float around as if it wasn’t completely attached. The mouth was lipless, toothless, and for the most part, motionless. The creature's eyes were wide set, creamy white and speckled with tiny multicolored pinpricks swirling along the surface, looking like lemon sized opals.

  “Greetings, people of the planet you call Earth,” the alien said. Its voice was deep, like several octaves on a keyboard all crammed together, and distinctly not human. It produced a feeling similar to hearing fingernails on a chalkboard and made my face scrunch up as if I’d tasted a bad lemon.

  “You have been invited to the galactic contest of champions,” it continued. “One person from your planet shall act as your Champion in the great Arena where they will face off against Champions from planets across the megaverse. If your champion wins, Earth shall receive knowledge and technology beyond your wildest dreams. If your champion loses, Earth will be strip-mined of every precious material, and your inhabitants sold into intergalactic servitude.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood at full attention as a chill ran down the length of my spine, landing in my belly with a disconcerting thud.

  “Um, did he… she… did it just basically say space slavery?” I whispered to the President.

  The woman across from me stood, her cheeks flushed red with a flash of anger. I thought she had been hot seated but, good God, standing this woman could melt the ice caps. Her lower half was covered in a skin-tight navy-blue skirt that matched the jacket and was almost inappropriately short. Her stockingless and incredibly toned legs disappeared underneath the edge of the table into what I hoped were navy-blue high heel shoes.

  “We thought that too,” the President replied gravely.

  “Well, then, you thought wrong,” the woman said angrily, her face scrunched up in righteous indignation. “It is not space slavery, more like space indentured servitude.”

  “Ah, yes, I was waiting for you all to notice the absolutely stunningly gorgeous young piece--” The President boasted right before his daug
hter thwacked him on the arm.

  “Dad!”

  “Pièce de résistance, right everyone?” The President recovered very quickly from his latest guffaw. “Everybody, this is Artemis. She is brand new and is a foremost expert on U.F.O.s.”

  I didn’t think anyone else did, but I caught a brief eye exchange between the President and Artemis.

  “Hi?” The woman named Artemis squeaked out as she took her seat.

  “Okay, that was truly fantastic, right? Huh?” The President said as he gave himself a round of applause. “Okay, roll the tape again.”

  The alien on the screen began to talk once more.

  “May your warrior be wise, cunning, ruthless and powerful, for the fate of your world lies in their hands. Your Champion is--” Membrane-like lids closed over the alien’s eyes as if it downloaded some form of information into its brain. “Marc Caleb Havak of Seaford, Delaware, the United States of America.”

  Then the screen went blank.

  “I don’t suppose that last sentence was followed with ‘You’ve won a brand new car,’ was it?” I asked in a hope that maybe I could break the sludge-like tension in the room.

  “What did you say, son?” the Marine Corps Commandant asked, his voice taking on a Sergeant Hartman quality. Nope, the tension was still front and center.

  “Look, everyone, I’m flattered,” I said, tired of not being a part of the conversation that revolved around me, “but there has got to be a mistake. I’m no champion on this planet or any other. You’ve got the wrong Marc Havak.” There was something about those words that didn’t sound quite right, even as I said them. They rang hollow like my heart knew something my mind didn’t yet.

  The President’s daughter cleared her throat and folded her hands in front of herself on the table. She knew how to command attention, that was for sure. She turned and looked at me.

  “You’re Marcus Caleb Havak, born October, 31st, 1988, Seaford, Delaware,” she recited from memory, “You weighed nine pounds six ounces and were twenty inches long. Circumcised November, 1st.” The slightest trace of a wicked smile pulled at the corner of her lips, but she gave no indication that she had said anything out of the ordinary. I could feel heat rise in my face as my cheeks turned red.

  “Good to know, pertinent,” the President chimed in with no hint of sarcasm whatsoever. “My daughter is very thorough. I taught her that.”

  “Thanks, dad,” she said as she nodded her head to the President before picking up where she left off, “You went to Seaford High School. Solid C student. Took Rebecca “Becka” Wronkowski to the prom. Got to third base in the back of your 1983 Oldsmobile. Raised by your mother and maternal great-uncle, Joe Vogel, honorable discharge, United States Army, 1944. Had a partial scholarship to study mechanical science at the University of Delaware but never attended. Worked at MacDonald Trucking since the spring of 2009. Didn’t vote in the last Presidential election. Did I miss anything?”

  “Nope,” I responded, feeling more than a bit exposed. “That about covers it.”

  “You are the right guy, Marc,” she said earnestly as she held my gaze for a beat before sitting down.

  “Mr. President,” the Navy Admiral said as he leaned into the table, hands clasped in front of his face, his voice almost pleading, “I have a Tier One Special Operator ready to impersonate Mr. Havak and take his place as Earth’s champion. He’s one of our finest and ready to go on your word.”

  The Admiral gestured to one of his underlings, and a moment later, a guy that looked remarkably like me strode into the room with the confidence of a highly trained killing machine. Not-Me got to the edge of the table and stood at attention.

  “Marc Havak, ready for orders, sir!” he barked.

  His hair was the same as mine, down to the three-week-old Sports Clips cut, and our eyes were practically identical. He wore a MacDonald Trucking work shirt under a MacDonald Trucking fleece lined jacket, a pair of Old Navy khaki pants, and well-worn Doc Marten wingtip boots. Exactly what I was wearing. The likeness was really pretty incredible.

  Except he was six-foot-two, had a head that was the exact shape of a pickle jar, and looked as though he could take out everyone in the room with only a spoon.

  A large part of me was relieved by the guy's arrival. Just by looking at him, anyone could see that he stood a much better chance of surviving some kind of Alien Thunderdome Deathmatch than I did, but another part of me was totally bummed out. The idea of being Earth’s space knight- errant was pretty damn awesome. Sure, I hadn’t been in a fight since the eighth grade, but I still knew some karate and usually placed in the top three whenever I played Laser Tag at Main Event. That had to count for something, right? This was finally my chance to do something other than driving a truck, and I didn’t want Johnny Jarhead to take that away.

  “Mr. President,” I began, “I know I haven’t seemed too enthused about this, but if I was chosen, I should be the one to go. Sending someone in my place feels like cheating.”

  “See, that’s the Marc I know and love right there,” the President said as he snapped his right thumb and index finger. “He’s the guy. I know it, the aliens know it, my daughter knows it, and everyone knows it. He’s hired.”

  The Admiral sighed and waved his G.I. Marcus away. The JSOC looked like they just got home from a battle and had gotten their asses kicked.

  “Marc Havak!” a voice boomed, seemingly inside my and everyone else's’ heads. “You have passed your first test.”

  There was a commotion, and I turned to see Artemis rise up from her chair until she was five feet off the ground. There was a rippling, light blue aura around her, and her hair blew back from her head in a gust of wind that wasn’t there. Her clothes morphed as if a computer effects person waved a digital wand over her from her sexy business attire to an even sexier, form-fitting outfit. The outfit consisted of a shiny silver body suit adorned with decorative chain-like LED lights, thigh-high metallic silver boots that looked as if they had been airbrushed on, long, fingerless metallic silver gloves with alien tech built into the forearms, and a jaunty, mid-length cape that went down to the small of her back and had an overly large collar.

  If I had thought the place broke out into pandemonium before that was nothing compared to this.

  Every weapon in the room was drawn and aimed at Artemis as she hovered over the ground. The Secret Service men and Marines formed a protective circle around us. Everyone was yelling all at once, and the room was on the brink of hysteria.

  “Enough!” Artemis boomed and waved her hand. All the guns flew out of their owners’ hands and landed in a heap on the table.

  The President pushed his way through the Secret Service guys.

  “Everyone, it’s okay,” the President said in the most placating tone he could muster. “Artemis is actually an alien. She appeared in the Oval Office at the same time as the ship. We are good friends. Spectacular friends. The best.”

  Artemis floated closer to the President.

  “I kept my presence hidden in order to test your champion’s character,” she said in a deeply modulated voice. “He passed. Bring him to our ship at once.”

  She pressed a button on her forearm and shimmered out of existence.

  “I know you will have questions,” the President said as he started to walk toward the elevator. “Questions are good. I am good at answering them. Fantastic really. But, my daughter and I have to take Marc to his spaceship first. You’re all doing a fantastic job. The best. Let’s go, Marc.”

  I shrugged at the men on the other side of the table as they tried to murder me with their steely glares, got up, and followed the President into the elevator.

  The ride up didn’t seem to take nearly as long as the way down, and it seemed like the President’s daughter stood closer to me. So close I could smell her very expensive perfume.

  “It’s called Primal,” she whispered as she leaned her head closer to

  mine, “one of our brands. For the woman who knows
how to take what she wants. I came up with the slogan.”

  “It’s very nice,” I said as I turned and found her face just a few inches from mine, “Subtle at first but threatens to pounce at a moment's notice.” I wasn’t sure where this cocky son-of-a-bitch attitude came from, but I liked it.

  “Ohh,” she moaned, “That’s good. Very good. I’ll make sure to tell marketing to use that.”

  “I’ll expect credit,” I continued.

  “Oh, you’ll be compensated,” she practically purred. “Highly. Compensated.”

  It felt like the temperature in the elevator had gone up by about twenty degrees, the air hot and wet. I was about to say something highly inappropriate when the elevator doors opened, and the cold winter air blasted in.

  A jet-black SUV stood five feet away from the elevator, a Secret Service agent holding the back door open. We hastily beat feet to the car and hopped in, the interior already warm.

  Somehow, I ended up riding the middle spot, the President on my left, his daughter on my right. Both of them looked as happy as a kid on Christmas. The Secret Service agent shut the door, and the SUV sped off through the Pentagon courtyard.

  “Are you ready for this, Marc?” the President asked as he turned toward me. “Last day of anonymity. Tomorrow, you’ll be famous.”

  “I hadn’t really even thought about it, Mr. President,” I answered. “I never wanted to be famous.”

  They both laughed as if I were joking.

  “Oh, wait, you’re serious?” The President said as if I’d told him that I thought leprechauns were real and lived in my shoe.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” I replied honestly.