The Games

between the lion and the gazelle. Or between the wolf and the deer. Nature, red of tooth and claw. Animals have always had to fight for survival.”

“But not for sport.”

“Sport was their survival. Without that sport, eventually, there were no pit bulls. Sport was their ecological niche.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

He continued, “Without the gladiator competition, this specimen you seem so impressed by would not exist, because the funding behind it would not exist. I was in college when the gladiator competition first became a regular part of the Olympics, so I’m old enough to remember what the field of genetics used to be like. This competition is the best thing that could have happened. When you combine scientists with capitalists, great leaps forward are made, always. Throw in a healthy dose of national pride, and anything can happen.”

Just then, a wasp fell out of the air and landed in her hair. She hardly reacted, turning her head slowly from side to side to try and free it from the dark windblown tangle. It crawled down a wayward curl onto her cheek, and he expected her to yelp and flinch away. But instead she gently swept the wasp to the table with the side of her hand. It sat, throwing its legs up for a moment, before righting itself and buzzing back into the air above them.

“You say you’ve seen video footage of these dogfights?” she said. “Well, I’ve seen the blood with my own eyes. I may not know what a pit bull is, but I’ve seen the boys and their fighting dogs in the back alleys where I grew up. And more significantly, I’ve seen these dogs a few days later with their faces so swollen with infection that their eyes look like little peas stuffed in puffy dough. What you do is still just back-alley dogfighting to me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Tell me good comes out of it somehow. Fine. Tell me it’s a necessary evil. So be it. But don’t you dare tell me how much the animals enjoy it.”

She looked up into the sky above them, watching the wasps. “I don’t see how the gladiator contest is even legal, given all the laws against animal cruelty.”

“Back-alley dogfights don’t funnel money into research for genetic diseases. The United States has many self-serving laws. Why not question why cigarettes are banned while alcohol remains legal?”

“So what do you get out of this, then? Is it the money? The fame?” Her eyes flashed with anger.

His own temper was rising now. He fought against it and decided to take the conversation in another direction. “You’ve seen Michelangelo’s statue of David, right?”

“Pictures.”

“I saw it twenty years ago when I was in Florence. I’m not going to tell you it changed my life, but it did change my perspective. I’d seen pictures, too, but when I saw it with my own eyes … words can’t even describe. I’ve never considered myself to be artistically inclined, but looking at that statue, I knew I was witnessing creative perfection. Michelangelo took a lump of stone and found the human form inside. When he was finished, it looked soft; it looked warm.”

“It’s a statue.”

“If you ever get a chance to see David in person, you’ll understand. No one could ever hope to surpass it. At least not in that medium. Michelangelo found the truth in stone, and that truth is the commonality between art and science.”

“Truth?”

“Each of us looks for it in the ways that are available to us.”

“So that’s what you are looking for, the truth in your medium?”

“It is what we are all looking for.”

“And you think Michelangelo would have approved?”

“If he were alive today, Michelangelo wouldn’t bother with stone. He would be a geneticist.”

“You’re serious.”

Silas nodded. “I wouldn’t want to face Italy’s gladiator in the arena.”

SILAS WAS tired. Bone tired. He lay on the long couch in his office, legs propped up and over the armrest, hands thrown back behind his head. He had grown accustomed to the long hours at the lab, but the initial cycle of pre-competition press conferences had begun today, and his energy reserves were depleted. There was nothing left, and the bad part was that he knew it would get worse before it got better. How do you explain to a room full of reporters that you can’t answer their questions? No pictures of the gladiator available. No information available. Why are you all here, then, you ask? Because the Olympic Commission wants you running those special-interest stories that turn the public’s eye toward the coming games. That’s why. No, I can’t tell you a damned thing to make your job easier. No, I can’t tell you what the gladiator looks like, or how it was designed, or anything at all, really, but hey, the United States won’t disappoint. I’m supposed to tell you that. Quote me on that.

He was a better scientist than he was a PR man, or at least he hoped to God he was, or he wasn’t much of a scientist at all. His eyes closed, and he willed his mind blank. For a moment, sleep seemed possible.

The knock on his door was not welcome. He waited.

The knock came again.

“Damn.” Silas climbed to his feet.

Tay Sawyer’s grinning face met him through the cracked door. Internally, Silas cringed, but he swung the door wide and let the trainer in anyway. He liked the man but wasn’t in the mood to deal with his restless energy this particular afternoon.

Tay Sawyer was one of those men whose activity level seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere in preadolescence. He was a force never at rest, but his hyperkinetic agitations didn’t distract from the fact that he was the best trainer in the business. He was a short, thick man, baby-faced, slightly bowlegged, and prematurely balding. The top of his head was shiny and tanned.

“What’s going on, Tay?”

“Great progress. I had to see you. This gladiator, Silas, I have to hand it to you, you’ve done something special this time.”

Silas collapsed back onto the couch.

Tay continued, “You’ve got to come down and see what it can do.”

“Now?”

“Not now. How about Friday?”

The man’s excitement was endearing but not in the least bit contagious. Exhaustion had inoculated Silas against it. Tay still didn’t sit; he paced. The way his compact form hustled across the carpet made each step seem a muscular endeavor. The muscles in his thick legs showed in grooves through his dress slacks.

“Bring Ben, too,” Tay said. “He’ll probably want to see it.”

“What exactly is going on Friday?”

“The new robotics will be up.” Tay rubbed his hands together in mock mad-scientist glee. “Then I can start the real training.”

“What time do you want us there?”

“I know you’re busy, so how about lunchtime. It won’t take long.”

“We’ll be there.”

“Great,” Tay said, and the grin brushed his earlobes.

He even smiles enthusiastically.

“We’re going to make history with this one, Silas. I’ve never seen reflexes like this before. You’re a goddamned genius.”

“Thanks.”

“I did the first tests for reaction time today. Zero-point-zero-two seconds. Can you believe that?”

Silas wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded.

“I checked it four times,” Tay continued. “Then I checked the equipment. But it’s for real. This thing makes lightning look slow.”

“Great. I’ll see you Friday, then, okay?” Sleep was calling him now.

“Yeah, boss. See you Friday.” Tay turned to go.