Day four was interviews and evaluation. First time up, Lawrence was quizzed by two college officers about his background and motivation and likes and dislikes. He knew he had to be courteous and slightly self-deprecating and honest and relaxed and show he had a sense of humor as well as being overwhelmingly interesting. Tall order cramming those traits into ninety minutes while you're telling them your life history and slanting it so that your inquisitors believe they cannot possibly afford to let you slip out of the college.
The second interview was with an assistant to the deputy principal, a cheery old woman who dressed in clothes a century out of date, presumably to give her an authoritative schoolmarmish air. They sat on opposite sides of a steel-blue desk in her office, a fourth-story room with a good view out over the canal.
Data was scrolling down her desktop pane, which was just at the wrong angle for him to read it.
"You did very well on the simulations," she said. "Good reflexes. Good spatial instinct—whatever that is. High proficiency on logical analysis. Integrated well with the group command dynamics. Fast thinker. Care to comment on any of that, Mr. Newton?"
"We were a mess in the last three simulations yesterday. Too much competition."
"That's right. That's why we include them. Think of it as a measure of how unselfish you can be."
"And was I?"
"You certainly showed awareness of the situation. It was a mature reaction. You have the potential to be an officer."
"Excellent." Lawrence couldn't help his hungry grin.
"Which gives me something of a problem. You see, it's more than proficiency we're looking for this week. Your stake also has to be taken into account. And, frankly, there are candidates with an aptitude equal to yours who have a much larger stake in Z-B than you."
Lawrence managed to hold on to his expression of polite respect "I suspect they all had inherited stakes. It's not actually possible for someone of my rank in strategic security to earn a higher stake than the one I have. A lot of the fleet platoon members opt for a much lower percentage. That should tell you all you need to know about my level of commitment to Z-B."
"It does, Lawrence, and it's very impressive, as was your commanding officer's report. But the figures speak for themselves. And we have to stick to our chosen method of selection. You understand that, don't you?"
He nodded sharply. This is a hatchet job, he realized. She's turning me down. I've failed. Failed! His fingers closed tightly around the end of the chair's armrests.
"Good," she said. "What I'd suggest is that you reapply in another couple of years. With the scores you've accumulated over the last three days we'd welcome you back again for another assessment. And by then your stake should have risen to a suitable percentage."
"Thank you." That was what it boiled down to. Thank you. His life's dream denied. Thank you. Five years devoted to the company, putting his life on the line. Thank you. He'd left his world behind, his life, his family, his one love. Thankyou. Thankyou. Thankfucking YOU.
It was sunny and cold when he marched down the stone steps to the square, a cloudless deep azure sky overhead. He blinked at the sharp light, which was what must be making his eyes watery. It was normally dark when he came out of the headquarters building. People got in his way as he walked. He pushed past them, heedless of their protests. Trams, too, they could fucking wait. Bastard cyclists always in the way.
Fortunately the bar was almost empty. But then it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. When the evening crowd arrived, Lawrence planned on moving back to the hotel where he could call up room service for the rest of the night. He opened the front of his coat and claimed a barstool. "Margarita, one glass, one jug." He slapped a couple of EZ twenties on the bar. "And that's a proper glass, with salt."
"Yes, sir." The barman wasn't going to argue, not yet.
Lawrence dropped his head into his hands and let out a painful sigh, surprising himself by not shrieking in anguish. "Shit! Shit, shit, fuck it!"
Someone pulled out the stool next to his and sat down. Like they didn't have the whole fucking place to choose from. He jerked round angrily to tell them to— "Oh."
"I thought I'd better check on you," Joona said in mild embarrassment "You nearly got run over by a couple of trams."
He turned away. "Enjoy your moment of triumph."
"Suffering in others is not a cause for rejoicing."
"In that case, give the hippie philosophy a break. It pisses me off."
"They turned you down."
"Yeah. All right? They turned me down. Bastards."
"Did they say why?"
"I'm not rich enough. That's what it was in the end. My stake in the company isn't enough. For fuck's sake, I've got a thirty percent investment in Z-B shares. A third of everything I earn goes straight back into the company. What the fuck else do they expect from me?"
"I don't know. What did you expect from them?"
"A fair chance. No, not really. I should have known. Me of all people. I know how companies really work, what really counts."
The barman put his margarita jug down in front of him, pushing a coaster forward for the glass. It was a proper margarita glass, with a thin rime of salt around the rim.
"What does count?" Joona asked.
"Internal politics. You want one of these, or have you got to run back to shout at my fellow corporate cyborgs?"
"We're not exactly on timesheets and shift work." Lawrence nodded to the barman. "Another glass, please."
Waking up was accompanied by its timeless twin: where am I? Lawrence opened his eyes to see a long room with a desk and a couple of worn comfy chairs at one end. The floor was bare wooden boards, with a couple of rugs thrown down, one of which he was lying on. Opposite him was a broad arched window, with thick old curtains drawn. Scraps of streetlight shone around the edges, casting a dreary sodium-yellow illumination against the walls. Several large prints had been hung above the small fireplace, posters for various exhibitions and poetry recitals decades out of date. Definitely student digs. Brighter slivers of light silhouetted the door. When he lifted his head he could see a bed at the other end of the room. Joona was sitting on it, her back against the tarnished brass railings. She had a quilt wrapped around her shoulders. A reefer dangled from one hand, its end glowing morosely in the gloom.
"Oh, hell," he muttered. At least he was still wearing his uniform. "How did I...?"
"I brought you here," she said. There was a current of humor in her voice. "My turn to rescue you from the bar."
"Thanks." He sat up gingerly. "Do I owe you a twenty?"
"No, a friend helped get you into the tram. There's a stop close to the end of this street."
"Uh, right." He didn't remember much after the third jug of margaritas. Just bitching on about Z-B and how he would have loved to be the first person to land on a new world. He ran his dry rubber tongue around the inside of his dry mouth. The taste was awful. Apart from that he wasn't too bad, just stiff from the floor. "How come I don't have a hangover?"
"I made you take aspirin and vitamin C, and a couple of liters of water."
"Right. Thanks again." The mention of water made him want to pee. Badly. Joona told him where to find the toilet, just outside and down the corridor.
"Try to be quiet," she said as he hurried out "Everyone else is asleep."
His watch said it was quarter past two.
When he got back she was still sitting at the end of the bed, the reefer down to its last half-centimeter. "Want some?" she asked.
"No, thanks. Us cyborgs don't, remember?"
"Of course."
"Look, thanks again for taking care of me. I'd, er, better be going."
"Really?" She took a deep drag. "What's waiting for you?"