The Speed of Dark

I skip all the blanks that concern the persona I do not have and read the Ritual Disclaimer at the bottom. That is what the bold print says, but I do not know exactly what it means. By signing it I agree that fencing is a dangerous sport and that any injuries I may suffer are not the fault of the tournament organizers and therefore I cannot sue them. I further agree to abide by the rules of the sport and the rulings of all referees, which will be final.

I hand the signed form to Tom, who hands it to Lucia. She sighs and puts it in her needlework basket.

Thursday evening I usually watch television, but I am going to the tournament. Tom told me to practice every day I could. I change and drive over to Tom and Lucia’s. It feels very strange driving this way on a Thursday. I notice the color of the sky, of the leaves on the trees, more than I usually do. Tom takes me outside and tells me to start doing footwork exercises, then drills of specific parry/riposte combinations.

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.