The Speed of Dark

by Elizabeth Moon

  Soon I am breathing hard. “That’s good,” he says. “Keep going. I’m having you do things you can do at home, since you probably won’t make it over here every night.”

  No one else comes. In half an hour Tom puts on his mask, and we do slow and fast drills on the same moves, over and over. It is not what I expected, but I can see how it will help me. I leave by 8:30 and am too tired to go on-line and play games when I get home. It is much harder when I am fencing all the time, instead of taking turns and watching the others.

  I take a shower, feeling the new bruises gingerly. Even though I am tired and stiff, I feel good. Mr. Crenshaw has not said anything about the new treatment and humans. Marjory said, “Oh. Good for you!” when she found out I was going to be in the tournament. Tom and Lucia are not angry with each other, at least not enough to quit being married.

  The next day I do laundry, but on Saturday after cleaning, I go to Tom and Lucia’s again for another lesson. I am not as stiff on Sunday as I was on Friday. On Monday I have another extra lesson. I am glad Tom and Lucia’s special day is Tuesday because this means I do not have to change the day I do grocery shopping. Marjory is not at the store. Don is not at the store. On Wednesday, I go fencing as usual. Marjory is not there; Lucia says she is out of town. Lucia gives me special clothes for the tournament. Tom tells me not to come on Thursday, that I am ready enough.

  Friday morning at 8:53 Mr. Crenshaw calls us together and says he has an announcement to make. My stomach knots.

  “You are all very lucky,” he says. “In today’s tough economic climate I am, frankly, very surprised that this is even remotely possible, but in fact… you have the chance to receive a brand-new treatment at no cost to yourselves.” His mouth is stretched in a big false grin; his face is shiny with the effort he is making.

  He must think we are really stupid. I glance at Cameron, then Dale, then Chuy, the only ones I can see without turning my head. Their eyes are moving, too.

  Cameron says, in a flat voice, “You mean the experimental treatment developed in Cambridge and reported in Nature Neuroscience a few weeks ago?”

  Crenshaw pales and swallows. “Who told you about that?”

  “It was on the Internet,” Chuy says.

  “It—it—” Crenshaw stops, and glares at all of us. Then he twists his mouth into a smile again. “Be that as it may, there is a new treatment, which you have the opportunity to receive at no cost to you.”

  “I don’t want it,” Linda says. “I do not need a treatment; I am fine the way I am.” I turn and look at her.

  Crenshaw turns red. “You are not fine,” he says, his voice getting louder and harsher. “And you are not normal. You are autistics, you are disabled, you were hired under a special provision—”

  “ ‘Normal’ is a dryer setting,” Chuy and Linda say together. They grin briefly.

  “You have to adapt,” Crenshaw says. “You can’t expect to get special privileges forever, not when there’s a treatment that will make you normal. That gym, and private offices, and all that music, and those ridiculous decorations—you can be normal and there’s no need for that. It’s uneconomic. It’s ridiculous.” He turns as if to leave and then whirls back. “It has to stop,” he says. Then he does leave.

  We all look at one another. Nobody says anything for several minutes. Then Chuy says, “Well, it’s happened.”

  “I won’t do it,” Linda says. “They can’t make me.”

  “Maybe they can,” Chuy says. “We don’t know for sure.”

  In the afternoon, we each get a letter by interoffice mail, a letter on paper. The letter says that due to economic pressure and the need to diversify and remain competitive, each department must reduce staff. Individuals actively taking part in research protocols are exempt from consideration for termination, the letter says. Others will be offered attractive separation allowances for voluntary separation. The letter does not specifically say that we must agree to treatment or lose our jobs, but I think that is what it means.

  Mr. Aldrin comes by our building in late afternoon and calls us into the hall.

  “I couldn’t stop them,” he says. “I tried.” I think again of my mother’s saying: “Trying isn’t doing.” Trying isn’t enough. Only doing counts. I look at Mr. Aldrin, who is a nice man, and it is clear that he is not as strong as Mr. Crenshaw, who is not a nice man. Mr. Aldrin looks sad. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “but maybe it’s for the best,” and then he leaves. That is a silly thing to say. How can it be for the best?

  “We should talk,” Cameron says. “Whatever I want or you want, we should talk about it. And talk to someone else—a lawyer, maybe.”

  “The letter says no discussion outside the office,” Bailey says.

  “The letter is to frighten us,” I say.

  “We should talk,” Cameron says again. “Tonight after work.”

  “I do my laundry on Friday night,” I say.

  “Tomorrow, at the Center…”

  “I am going somewhere tomorrow,” I say. They are all looking at me; I look away. “It is a fencing tournament,” I say. I am a little surprised when no one asks me about it.

  “We will talk and we may ask at the Center,” Cameron says. “We will bounce you about it later.”

  “I do not want to talk,” Linda says. “I want to be left alone.” She walks away. She is upset. We are all upset.

  I go into my office and stare at the monitor. The data are flat and empty, like a blank screen. Somewhere in there are the patterns I am paid to find or generate, but today the only pattern I can see is closing like a trap around me, darkness swirling in from all sides, faster than I can analyze it.

  I fix my mind on the schedule for tonight and tomorrow: Tom told me what to do to prepare and I will do it.

  TOM PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT OF LOU’S APARTMENT building, aware that he had never before seen where Lou lived while Lou had been in and out of his house for years. It looked like a perfectly ordinary apartment building, built sometime in the previous century. Predictably, Lou was ready on time, waiting outside with all his gear, other than his blades, neatly stowed in a duffel. He looked rested, if tense; he had all the signs of someone who had followed the advice, who had eaten well and slept adequately. He wore the outfit Lucia had helped him assemble; he looked uncomfortable in it, as most first-timers did in period costume.

  “You ready?” Tom asked.

  Lou looked around himself as if to check and said, “Yes. Good morning, Tom. Good morning, Lucia.”

  “Good morning to you,” Lucia said. Tom glanced at her. They’d had one argument already about Lou; Lucia was ready to dismember anyone who gave him the least trouble, and Tom felt that Lou could handle minor problems on his own. She had been so tense about Lou lately, he thought. She and Marjory were up to something, but Lucia wouldn’t explain. He hoped it wouldn’t erupt at the tournament.

  Lou was silent in the backseat on the way; it was restful, compared to the chatterers Tom was used to. Suddenly Lou spoke up. “Did you ever wonder,” he asked, “about how fast dark is?”

  “Mmm?” Tom dragged his mind back from wondering whether the middle section of his latest paper needed tightening.

  “The speed of light,” Lou said. “They have a value for the speed of light in a vacuum… but the speed of dark…”

  “Dark doesn’t have a speed,” Lucia said. “It’s just what’s there when light isn’t—it’s just a word for absence.”

  “I think… I think maybe it does,” Lou said.

  Tom glanced in the rearview mirror; Lou’s face looked a little sad. “Do you have any idea how fast it might be?” Tom asked. Lucia glanced at him; he ignored her. She always worried when he indulged Lou in his word games, but he couldn’t see the harm in it.

  “It’s where light isn’t,” Lou said. “Where light hasn’t come yet. It could be faster—it’s always ahead.”

  “Or it could have no movement at all, because it’s already there, in place,” T
om said. “A place, not a motion.”

  “It isn’t a thing,” Lucia said. “It’s just an abstraction, just a word for having no light. It can’t have motion…”

  “If you’re going to go that far,” Tom said, “light is an abstraction of sorts. And they used to say it existed only in motion, particle, and wave, until early in this century when they stopped it.”

  He could see Lucia scowl without even looking at her, from the edge in her voice. “Light is real. Darkness is the absence of light.”

  “Sometimes dark seems darker than dark,” Lou said. “Thicker.”

  “Do you really think it’s real?” Lucia asked, half turning in the seat.

  “ ‘Darkness is a natural phenomenon characterized by the absence of light,’ ” Lou’s singsong delivery made it clear this was a quote. “That’s from my high school general science book. But it doesn’t really tell you anything. My teacher said that although the night sky looks dark between the stars, there’s actually light—stars give off light in all directions, so there’s light or you couldn’t see them.”

  “Metaphorically,” Tom said, “if you take knowledge as light and ignorance as dark, there does sometimes seem to be a real presence to the dark—to ignorance. Something more tactile and muscley than just lack of knowledge. A sort of will to ignorance. It would explain some politicians.”

  “Metaphorically,” Lucia said, “you can call a whale a symbol of the desert or anything something else.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Tom asked. He saw her sudden shift in the seat from the corner of his eye.

  “I’m feeling annoyed,” Lucia said. “And you know why.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lou said from behind.

  “Why are you sorry?” Lucia asked.

  “I should not have said anything about the speed of dark,” Lou said. “It has upset you.”

  “You did not upset me,” Lucia said. “Tom did.”

  Tom drove on as uncomfortable silence overfilled the car. When they reached the park where the tournament would be, he hurried through the business of getting Lou signed in, his weapons checked, and then took him on a quick tour of the facilities. Lucia went off to talk to friends of hers; Tom hoped she would get over her annoyance, which upset Lou as well as himself.

  After a half hour, Tom felt himself relaxing into the familiar camaraderie. He knew almost everyone; familiar conversations flowed around him.

  Who was studying with whom, who had entered this tournament or that, who had won or lost. What the current quarrels were and who was not speaking. Lou seemed to be holding up well, able to greet the people Tom introduced him to. Tom coached him through a little warm-up; then it was time to bring him back to the rings for his first match.

  “Now remember,” Tom said, “your best chance to score is to attack immediately. Your opponent won’t know your attack and you won’t know his, but you are fast. Just blow past his guard and nail him, or try to. It’ll shake him up anyway—”

  “Hi, guys,” Don said from behind Tom. “Just got here—has he fought yet?”

  Trust Don to break Lou’s concentration. “No—he’s about to. Be with you in a minute.” He turned back to Lou. “You’ll do fine, Lou. Just remember—it’s best three out of five, so don’t worry if he does get a touch on you. You can still win. And listen to the ref…” Then it was time, and Lou turned away to enter the roped-off ring. Tom found himself suddenly stricken by panic. What if he had pushed Lou into something beyond his capacity?

  Lou looked as awkward as in his first year. Though his stance was technically correct, it looked stiff and contrived, not the stance of someone who could actually move.

  “I told you,” Don said, quietly for him. “It’s too much for him; he—”

  “Shut up,” Tom said. “He’ll hear you.”

  I AM READY BEFORE TOM ARRIVES. I AM WEARING THE COSTUME Lucia assembled for me, but I feel very peculiar wearing it in public. It does not look like normal clothes. The tall socks hug my legs all the way to the knees. The big sleeves of the shirt blow in the breeze, brushing up and down on my arms. Even though the colors are sad colors, brown and tan and dark green, I do not think Mr. Aldrin or Mr. Crenshaw would approve if they saw me in it.

  “Promptness is the courtesy of kings,” my fourth-grade teacher wrote on the board. She told us to copy it. She explained it. I did not understand about kings then or why we should care what kings did, but I have always understood that making people wait is rude. I do not like it when I have to wait. Tom is also on time, so I do not have to wait long.

  The ride to the tournament makes me feel scared, because Lucia and Tom are arguing again. Even though Tom said it was all right, I do not feel that it is all right, and I feel that somehow it is my fault. I do not know how or why. I do not understand why if Lucia is angry about something at work she does not talk about that, instead of snapping at Tom.

  At the tournament site, Tom parks on the grass, in a row with other vehicles. There is no place to plug in the batteries here. Automatically, I look at the cars and count colors and type: eighteen blue, five red, fourteen brown or beige or tan. Twenty-one have solar panels on the roof. Most people are wearing costumes. All the costumes are as odd as mine, or odder. One man wears a big flat hat covered with feathers. It looks like a mistake. Tom says it is not, that people really dressed like that centuries ago. I want to count colors, but most of the costumes have many colors, so it is harder. I like the swirling cloaks that are one color on the outside and another on the inside. It is almost like a spin spiral when they move.

  First we go to a table where a woman in a long dress checks our names against a list. She hands us little metal circles with holes in them, and Lucia pulls thin ribbons out of her pocket and gives me a green one. “Put it on this,” she says, “and then around your neck.” Then Tom leads me over to another table with a man in puffy shorts who checks my name off on another list.

  “You’re up at ten-fifteen,” he says. “The chart’s over there”—he points to a green-and-yellow-striped tent.

  The chart is made of big pieces of cardboard taped together, with lines for names like a genealogy chart, only mostly blank. Only the left-hand set of lines has been filled in. I find my name and the name of my first opponent.

  “It’s nine-thirty now,” Tom says. “Let’s take a look at the field and then find you a place to warm up.”

  When it is my turn and I step into the marked area, my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I do not know what I am doing here. I should not be here: I do not know the pattern. Then my opponent attacks and I parry. It is not a good parry—I was slow—but he did not touch me. I take a deep breath and concentrate on his movement, on his patterns.

  My opponent does not seem to notice when I make touches. I am surprised, but Tom told me that some people do not call shots against them. Some of them, he said, may be too excited to feel a light or even medium touch, especially if it is their first match. It could happen to you, too, he said. This is why he has been telling me to make firmer touches. I try again, and this time the other man is rushing forward just as I thrust and I hit him too hard. He is upset and speaks to the referee, but the referee says it is his fault for rushing.

  In the end, I win the bout. I am breathless, not just from the fight. It feels so different, and I do not know what the difference is. I feel lighter, as if gravity had changed, but it is not the same lightness I feel when I am near Marjory. Is it from fighting someone I did not know or from winning?

  Tom shakes my hand. His face is shiny; his voice is excited. “You did it, Lou. You did a great job—”

  “Yeah, you did fine,” Don interrupts. “And you were a bit lucky, too. You want to watch your parries in three, Lou; I’ve noticed before that you don’t use that often enough and when you do you really telegraph what you’re going to do next—”

  “Don…” Tom says, but Don goes on talking.

  “—and when somebody charges you like that, you shouldn’
t be caught off-guard—”

  “Don, he won. He did fine. Let up.” Tom’s eyebrows have come down.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know he won, he got lucky in his first bout, but if he wants to go on winning—”

  “Don, go get us something to drink.” Tom sounds upset now.

  Don blinks, startled. He takes the money Tom hands him. “Oh—all right. Be right back.”

  I do not feel lighter anymore. I feel heavier. I made too many mistakes.

  Tom turns to me; he is smiling. “Lou, that’s one of the best first bouts I’ve seen,” Tom says. I think he wants me to forget what Don said, but I cannot. Don is my friend; he is trying to help me.

  “I… I did not do what you said to do. You said attack first—”

  “What you did worked. That’s the meterstick here. I realized after you went up that it could have been bad advice.” Tom’s brow is furrowed. I do not know why.

  “Yes, but if I had done what you said to do he might not have gotten the first point.”

  “Lou—listen to me. You did very, very well. He got the first point, but you did not fall apart. You recovered. And you won. If he had called shots fairly, you would have won sooner.”

  “But Don said—”

  Tom shakes his head hard, as if something hurt. “Forget what Don said,” he says. “In Don’s first tournament, he fell apart at the first match. Completely. Then he was so upset by losing that he blew off the rest of the tournament, didn’t even fight in the losers’ round-robin—”

  “Well, thank you,” Don says. He is back, holding three cans of soda; he drops two of them on the ground. “I thought you were so hot on caring about people’s feelings—” He stalks off with one of the cans. I can tell he is angry.

  Tom sighs. “Well… it’s true. Don’t let it worry you, Lou. You did very well; you probably won’t win today—first-timers never do—but you’ve already shown considerable poise and ability, and I’m proud that you’re in our group.”