Arena

by Karen Hancock

  Callie knew that with her ill-considered words she had destroyed all hope of changing Meg’s mind. She stewed about it for a time, then went to lunch early, hoping to avoid the crowd. Pierce had evidently had the same plan, for he sat alone at a window table in the deserted cafeteria. Her first inclination was to pretend she didn’t see him—she had no idea what to say to him and wasn’t even sure she wanted to try. But when she reached the end of the food line, she knew she couldn’t abandon him, not with everything else that was going on.

  Maybe if I treat him as if nothing happened, she thought as she sidled between the tables, it’ll blow over and we can go back to normal.

  He wore a red flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, and his face was flushed from a morning hike. When she stopped beside his table, he glanced up and wariness leaped into his expression.

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  He shrugged, his stony mask dropping into place.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said, setting her tray on the table. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You needn’t apologize.” He scraped up the last of his eggs. “I’m the one who overstepped.”

  She slid into the chair across from him. “I’ve hurt your feelings.”

  “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

  I shouldn’t have come. This is only making things worse. But stalking away didn’t seem like much of an answer either. She broke off a piece of tortilla, scooped up scrambled eggs and salsa, and focused on eating, stealing glimpses of him as she did. He finished his blueberry muffin and leaned back in the chair, gazing out the window as he sipped his coffee. Sunlight streamed onto him, casting long, dramatic shadows off to his side.

  A handful of newcomers entered, ostensibly ignoring them, though Callie noticed their furtive glances and quiet comments.

  “So,” she said finally, scooping up more egg. “Where’d you go this morning?”

  “Window Rock.” A stiff climb that offered breathtaking views, she knew Window Rock to be one of his favorites.

  He did not elaborate, however, so she tried again. “Morgan’s leaving tomorrow.”

  “You going with him?”

  “Of course not!”

  Finally he met her gaze, his eyes joltingly blue. She thought he would say something, but he only set the cup on his tray and stood. “I better get to work.”

  “It’s your day off. You’re supposed to rest.”

  “I like studying.”

  She watched him weave between the tables and exit through the glass door, then sat sipping her coffee, feeling grumpier than ever. She needed very much to talk—about Meg, the Morgan crisis, her own confused feelings. Yesterday she would’ve confided in Pierce. Maybe not about her confused feelings for him, but all the rest. Now that was impossible, and the loss of their comfortable relationship made her want to cry.

  More people filtered in, and the noise of conversation rose. Callie had sat there half an hour when Evvi Albion dropped into the seat across from her, licking a strawberry ice cream cone. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  Would it matter if I did?

  “Can you believe those videos? What a pack of lies.” Ice cream dripped down the back of her hand onto the table. “It’s obvious the Tohvani made them up. Pierce would never act like that. He’s not that kind of man.” She licked the cone, then picked up a napkin to smear the spots around. “I’ll bet word comes to leave the day after Morgan goes. And it’ll be good riddance, too.”

  She crumpled the soiled napkin into a ball and left it beside the smear as she pulled another from the dispenser and licked her cone again. More drips splattered the brown Formica, but she didn’t notice. “Um, Callie, there’s something I’ve got to ask you—” She licked her cone. “Do you and Pierce, well, like, are you really lovers?” Unheedingly she laid her arm in the ice cream drips.

  “We’re friends.”

  Evvi fixed her with round owl eyes. “You’re sure.”

  “Of course.” Callie fingered her coffee cup. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason.” Finally noticing the ice cream on her sleeve, Evvi daubed at it with the clean napkin while the cone dripped elsewhere.

  “You’re interested in him yourself!” Callie cried, feigning surprise.

  The other girl flushed. “Well, if you’re really just friends . . . yeah. I mean . . .” She daubed at her sleeve again. “You’re sure, now. Because I wouldn’t want to . . . you know.”

  “We’re strictly business,” Callie assured her. “If you want to pursue him, be my guest.”

  Evvi’s eyes went wider than ever. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Crumpling the second napkin, she grinned broadly. “Oh, wow. Thanks, Callie!”

  Callie watched Evvi maneuver between the tables, feeling smug. That should take care of the rumors of romance. Maybe make Pierce feel better, too.

  A burst of laughter drew her attention to a group shoving two tables together nearby, and she decided to leave. Fifteen minutes later she was climbing the trail behind the compound, laden with sketchbooks, watercolor blocks, and paints. One of the many wonderful things about Rim-light was how it provided for its residents. Once she’d discovered the art supplies in her office, she’d begun sketching everything in sight. Whether it was the exceptional clarity of light or the novelty of snow and mountains or the simple freedom of making art for the sake of making it, something had broken loose. This work would be left behind when they departed. It didn’t have to win an award, impress a gallery manager, or even bring a sale. It only had to please her, and that not too much. She hadn’t had such fun since she was a child, and that had brought a corresponding looseness to her work—and lately, an unexpected authority.

  Even more unexpected was how it had been received. Pierce had hung one of her sketches in his office—matting and framing supplies had appeared along with the paper and paints. He’d suggested she hang some pieces in the auditorium’s lobby. Others saw them and wanted works for their own rooms, and before she knew it, she was feeling like a real artist.

  Today she set up on a familiar windswept knoll and began a large painting of the massive rock thrusting out of the slope above her. She’d often painted this rock, drawn by its creamy contrast against the blue sky, its angularity against the surrounding plumes of grass. As always of late, she let herself go, using a big brush and lots of paint and water.

  When she was done, she set it aside to dry and picked up her sketchbook, flipping through the used pages to the back, where she began a new drawing. The image had nagged her since lunch—a figure lounging in a chair under strong light, the cast shadows streaming on a dramatic diagonal. She paid particular attention to the features—features she had studied and drawn so often, they took form effortlessly.

  She was so absorbed in memory and distinctions of light and shadow that she didn’t hear Mr. Chapman’s approach, didn’t know he was standing behind her until he spoke.

  “That’s very good.”

  She flinched and had to exert conscious effort not to flip the book shut. “Thank you.”

  He crouched to study it more closely. “I like the way you’ve put him between the light and dark. Kind of symbolic, don’t you think?” She frowned at the sketch, symbolism having been the farthest thing from her mind. “And you’ve captured his expression perfectly. Pensive, thoughtful—I’ve seen that look on his face.”

  Settling on a nearby rock, he unclipped a water bottle from the belt of his gray shorts. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” He took a long drink, using his free hand to hold in place his Tyrolean hat with its long russet-colored feather.

  “That it is.” She closed the sketchbook and set it on the ground, then dug into her pack for her own bottle. A sudden breeze tousled tendrils of hair about her face.

  He waved his bottle at the painting of the rock, propped against an outcropping a few feet away. “That’s nice, too. You must have done quite well back on Earth.”

  “Actually
, I was drowning in rejection and paralyzed by a perfectionism that didn’t even make good paintings. This year’s been good for me.”

  A gust of wind caught the block, flipping it into the grass. She leaped to rescue it and, when she turned back, was mortified to see the same gust had thrown open the cover of the other book, displaying the images one after the other right before her companion’s eyes. Already he was bending to pick it up. She swallowed her protest as he lifted it onto his lap. “These are wonderful. May I look?”

  What could she say? He was already looking. “Go ahead. They’re pretty rough, and the subject is a bit repetitive. . . .” She trailed off, blushing.

  As he paged through the book, she washed her brushes and gathered her things. He took his time, studying each image intently. Finally he handed it back. “You capture the man well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m surprised you got him to pose for you. He doesn’t seem the type.”

  “These are mostly from memory.”

  His white brows arched. “From memory?”

  Oh, please, let’s change the subject! Callie stuffed the book under her day pack and tried. “So where are you headed today, Mr. C?”

  He leaned back on his rock, rubbing bony knees and gazing about. “I thought I’d catch the sunset at the Window. Get away from all the ruckus.” He gestured toward the compound below them. “What they are doing to Mr. Andrews is most distasteful.”

  “You don’t believe the videos?”

  He shrugged. “The past is past. Why drag it into the present?” He took off his hat and perched it on his knee. “People just want an excuse to leave.”

  “And who cares if they humiliate a good man in the process?”

  He nodded sadly.

  “Meg’s leaving, too,” Callie blurted, the words taking her by surprise.

  Mr. C’s brown eyes turned serious.

  “We had a fight this morning,” Callie went on.

  “And that’s why she’s leaving?”

  “No.” Callie sighed. “It’s just—I don’t understand. Pierce wears the circles and bars, he’s unlocked most of Rimlight, and he can read the manual better than any of us, but he still studies his head off to make sure he won’t lead us astray. How can she—how can any of them—think Morgan’s right?”

  He fingered the white whiskers under his lip. “People believe what they want to believe, lass. And it isn’t always the truth. Sometimes it has nothing to do with the truth.”

  “That’s Meg. She’s so dazzled with Brody, I feel like I don’t know her.” Callie recapped her water bottle. “And she had the gall to say I was blinded by feelings.”

  “For Pierce, you mean?”

  Her face warmed. “It’s not what she thinks.”

  “Ahh.”

  “It’s not.”

  “You don’t fill a sketchbook with pictures of someone you don’t care about, my dear.”

  “I find his features artistically interesting, that’s all.” She slid the bottle into her pack, avoiding his gaze, her heart hammering against her breastbone. What was it about this man that made her see herself so clearly? He’d done it first with her fear of heights, making her acknowledge it didn’t really burst out of nowhere but arose from her own thinking. She could control it, he said, by controlling what she chose to think about. And choice was always the issue with him, but choice based on fact—not hopes, not self-delusion, and most of all, not fear.

  And I am afraid of this, aren’t I?

  Meg had accused her of scuttling past relationships as soon as they hinted of getting serious because she was afraid of love. Meg had made her mad. Mr. C hadn’t even mentioned the matter and somehow led her back to it. But after Garth’s betrayal—and her own father’s—didn’t she have good reason? Besides, it wasn’t just fear. . . .

  “It’s true, Pierce and I work well together,” she said at length. “And sometimes it’s scary the way we read each other’s mind. I admit I enjoy his company. I respect him to death, and I’ve trusted him with my life more than once. But that’s not love.”

  A corner of his mouth crinkled. “If that’s not love, what is?”

  She waved a hand. “I’m talking about romantic love. Sparks. Chemistry. Knight-in-shining-armor stuff. I don’t feel that with him.”

  “Doesn’t mean you couldn’t.”

  She looked up at him, surprised.

  “That stuff is fun,” he went on, the breeze ruffling his hair, “but it has no staying power. Respect is what matters. Respect and rapport and integrity. If you have those, the sparks will follow.”

  He stroked the russet feather in his hat, then met her gaze, brown eyes piercing straight to her soul. “Don’t let fear rob you of joy, lass. If you can trust him with your life, why not with your heart?”

  She had no answer, but he didn’t seem to want one. Instead, he put on his hat, reclipped his bottle to his belt, and stood. “Well, the afternoon’s a-waning. Good luck with your painting.”

  She did no more painting, however. Instead she sat in the sun, smelled the grass, drank in the quiet, and thought. After a while she pulled out the sketchbook and paged through it, conscious of a strange new feeling welling up in her. The breeze whispered about her, caressing her face and making the flowers dance. She sat there until the sun hovered over the distant peaks and a chill crept into the air.

  Finally, reluctantly, she shrugged on her pack, gathered up her pads and blocks, and started for the trail—only to freeze, adrenaline washing through her in a hot, prickling wave.

  A Watcher stood four feet in front of her, blocking her way and radiating menace. Small crystalline scales covered its body, reflecting the fading light in places, absorbing it in others, so that parts of the creature’s form disappeared from time to time. Its eyepits were not holes, but rather black orbs with blacker pupils that reminded her of a shark’s eye—soulless and uncaring. She sensed it could devour her in a heartbeat if it chose to, that she was nothing more than prey.

  Originally assured the Watchers were harmless voyeurs, she now knew better. They were the Tohvani—brilliant, clever, seductive. And while they couldn’t physically touch participants, that did not lessen the threat they posed.

  How long had it been standing there? What did it want?

  Slowly the creature bent, picked up the sketchbook she hadn’t known she’d dropped, and held it out to her. She took it hesitantly, then stooped and retrieved the block as well. Except for returning its arm to its side, the alien never moved. Callie backed away, skirted a rocky outcropping, and stepped onto the trail. The Watcher pivoted, keeping her in sight. Nape hairs prickling, she turned her back to it and descended toward the compound, part of her wanting to bolt, part refusing to give the creature the satisfaction of seeing her panic.

  They’re right, you know. He is afraid. The words formed so clearly in her mind, she thought at first she’d heard them with her ears.

  He’s tasted the curtain. Even here he longs for it.

  Her treacherous feet brought her to a stop. The compulsion to turn back pressed her.

  We hold his leash, you see. When we call, he’ll come running, all his sheep behind him, right into our hands.

  Her knees wobbled violently, compulsion urging her to turn, to gaze into those bottomless eyes. She hugged her drawing pads to her chest and plugged her ears, finally seeking the link. The creature’s laughter echoed in her mind.

  It’s a little late for that, Callie. Even if you could find it, you’d still be listening to me. Because part of you isn’t so enamored with your sponsor as you’d like to pretend. He put you into this, after all, without your consent. And deep down, you’re still angry—still scared to death you won’t survive.

  Images tumbled through her mind—cliff-side trails, ripping winds, lavender depths pulling her down, down, down—

  “No!” She hurled herself down the trail, not stopping until she reached the compound. Finally, breathless and quivering, she glanced back. It was
still there. Shuddering, she stepped within the protective walls, and only then was she released, only then did she realize the full impact of the Watcher’s strength. Pierce had sobered them last night with his warnings about the powerful mental pressure Tohvani could wield. She guessed she hadn’t believed him—until now.

  The worst of it was, the thing was right. Something in her had leaped in response, something that still squirmed against what they had done to her—and still feared desperately that she would be like countless others who had tried to cross the Inner Realm and failed, who’d betrayed themselves and the Benefactor and had gone over to the other side, allowing themselves to become the very monsters they’d started out fighting.

  Instinctively she went looking for Pierce and found his office door open. The light was on, but no one was there. He wasn’t in the library, either. She checked the weight rooms, the dormitory, the big-screen video room, the HTS station, and finally returned to his study. It was as she’d left it—the computer on and the manual open on the desk, blued by the light of the screensaver.

  She stepped forward to see what he’d been working on. His notes were cryptic, half of them recorded in the same code as the manual, which she found difficult enough to decipher in print, let alone handwritten. Since nothing indicated where he had gone, she decided to leave him a message.

  In the search for something to write on, she found more notes tucked under the manual:

  f.c.= portable rejuvenating energy field; causes profound physio chngs; passage through first gate reverses changes, but desire and vulnerability to seduction remain.

  degree of change determined by frequency of exposure

  possibility of reversion to original state if expo cut off before too far—what’s too far?