JS Apsley

Under Exam Conditions

Inside the facility, a glossy, obsidian building, Amy found herself in a foyer in the company of fifty-seven others. They had been lined up in little groups, arranged by surname. She considered herself to be alone; she was not here to make friends. Yet, her mother’s brittle voice rang out in her mind. Smile, you foolish child. Don’t be such a mouse. You’re making such a mess of this. Amy batted the thought away like a summer moth.

A woman in a suit swished in, like an American TV lawyer entering court. She was making notes on a tablet with a dark green stylus. Perhaps this part, watching how the candidates arranged and socialized with each other, was also part of the exam Amy was about to undertake.

Amy was clever; in fact, she was sensationally intelligent. But she was also in need of an escape; a fresh start. Today’s exam was one of her many recent attempts to move her life far, far away from her mother. 

The lawyer-lady, formidable and fierce, started calling names and checking ID. Amy looked around at her cohort; graduate age, and eager. They had all responded to the same advert she had. The lawyer-lady led them from the foyer like schoolchildren on a day trip to the museum. 

The next hour was psychometric testing. Amy gave full answers to their behavioural and cognitive tests. She found most of it dull, uninspired. Most of the questions suited her skills immeasurably; though there was a sensory deprivation room which had left her a little dizzy. Above all else, she gave answers she knew would infuriate her mother. 

After, the cohort was gathered and taken into a large, sleek room which looked like a recording studio with soundproofed walls. It was set up in a traditional exam style, with little fold-away tables in rows. There were, Amy observed with a glance, fifty-seven tables. She had always been able to read the page of a book with a curt look; to count objects in a room in a single second. You think that makes you clever? You think you’re better than me? You’re a little mouse who’ll amount to nothing. 

Each person found they had their own desk pre-assigned. On each, a single sheet of paper and a tablet. Amy sat at her desk swiftly. She was beginning to think this whole thing had been a big mistake, and imposter syndrome struck from the verges. How could you possibly think you’d be one of the select few, you mousey-mouse? To work in some high-level Government agency? You’re a fool, girl, a fool of a little mouse. Her mother’s voice rang out as if she was there, leering at her over the desk. 

The lawyer-lady stood at the front and cleared her throat. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me pay you the compliment of being blunt. When you inevitably receive a letter saying thanks but no thanks, don’t be too hard on yourself. Few will move beyond this room. Now, let’s get on with getting on. You all have a blind scenario before you. During the next hour, you will please outline a management plan to deal with the scenario, using the tablet provided. During this time, I will walk amongst you and may glance at your answers. If I tap your shoulder; you’re out, and you will leave quietly. It is now 2pm. Commence please, in complete silence. Good luck.”

With that, the lawyer-lady set her tablet down and stood with her arms folded like a drill sergeant. Amy stretched her neck like someone who has been on a plane far too long. Looking around she saw some of the cohort fingering at their tablets furiously, some lost in deep thoughts, chewing their inner lips. 

She caught the gaze of lawyer-lady, who threw her a withering look. Instruction came to her in her mother’s voice. You slowcoach little mousey-mouse. What a poor start! Typical. You better make tracks, the clock is a-ticking. 

Amy held the tablet in her hands. It was a conduit; a door-opener. She wanted to be free, finally, of her infernal mother – to leave her in the dirt and dust. To leave her for dead. Oh, she understood that it was an unhealthy view; to wish one’s mother dead. But anyone who had endured twenty-two years of Elspeth Dillinger would surely reach the same conclusion. 

This thought sparked her to action. She realised she could approach the test scenario with the same vim. The cold, detached view of someone supposed to be the closed person to her in the entire world, might just be what the examiners are looking for. Some of the behavioural questions certainly implied dissociative traits might mark well. 

She read the scenario. 

You are deputy consulate to the island territory of British Guimar. The district governor has fled amidst rumors of a deadly outbreak in a medical facility on the north side of the Island, which had been creating vaccines for pandemic level viruses. All communications have ceased. Satellite imagery confirms everyone in and around the facility is dead; and paramilitary operatives are clashing with the community. The local government has collapsed. You have been asked to instigate the emergency response. What is it? 

Amy started writing. She had an hour; she wagered she would not need it, and wagered being fleet of foot would form part of the assessment criteria. In such real-world scenarios, there was no room for the ponderous. An executive summary would suffice. 

Close the airport; position vans or trucks on the runway if needed.

Stop all boats, shoot to kill if necessary.

Martial Law. Every resident under house arrest.

Co-opt the fitness center as a treatment facility.

Co-opt the municipal dump to burn the dead.

 And then, with a flourish, she added:

 Order the nearest nuclear deterrent vessel to take a position near the island.

We may have but one chance to prevent an extinction level event and the Captain should be under order to wipe the slate clean.

Lawyer-lady had been observing all this, and tapped Amy on the shoulder. She pointed to a door at the rear. Amy stood, her chair scraping the floor, bereft abjection; she walked past the others with pride as they gazed in awe of her being booted within minutes.

Amy reflected that her answers had appeared flippant; yet she was deadly serious. Her solution to the scenario was the only proper position to take. If the examiners thought otherwise, well, hell mend them. 

Lawyer-lady showed her through the door at the rear and she found herself in an observation room. An elderly man in a sophisticated suit was lounging on a green leather Chesterfield, holding a tablet. On the opposite side, a bank of CCTV screens, showing the faces of the candidates. On each screen, Amy saw a full readout of various health information: pulse, heart-rate and so forth. Amy realized that the tablets were being used to monitor the vitals of the applicants. 

The man raised the tablet, seeing that understanding dawn across her face, and waved it at her. “Specially designed, you see.” 

Amy did see. 

“Please,” he offered, “would you sit a moment?” 

Amy sat. 

“My name is Jonathan Green. And you are Amy Dillinger. 22 years old. Just graduated with honours, law and international relations. Father, deceased, when you were fourteen. Sorry to hear that. You’ve been living with your mother, Elspeth, just the two of you, since that time.” 

“What of it, Mr Green? I’ve failed, haven’t I? Why the debrief?” Amy said bluntly. 

“All in good time, Amy. Please, without looking, can you tell me how many screens on the wall behind you?” 

“There are sixty-eight screens. Fifty-seven screens trained on fifty-seven desks; and eleven screens with wider angles. I could rhyme off the names of the applicants at bottom of their screen, if you’d like,” she said strongly. And I could probably tell you the heart rates of each of them too. The old man chortled; and held his hands up in mock surrender. 

“I think you have a number of gifts, Amy, and an eidetic memory is one of them. Amy … you haven’t failed. In fact, you’re the only one who’ll pass today. Please, watch the screens with me a moment.” 

Amy turned round, cautiously. She was wary of this Mr. Green. He sees nothing in you, child. There is nothing to see. He’s just a dirty old man enjoying a good leer, though heaven knows why; you with your mousey little face and your mousey little eyes. Squeak squeak, mousey. 

Amy shook her mother from her mind and watched in glorious fascination as the lawyer-lady turned away from the applicants and donned a micro-breathing device. Amy, confused, searched the face of the mysterious Mr Green for answers. 

“Please, you’ll miss the show,” he said, pointing back at the screens. 

One by one, the applicants started to nod off, their heads lolling. The whole room had been filled with some agent; a gas. Within a matter of seconds, all the applicants were unconscious. A minute or so later, and the gas was extracted, and the lawyer-lady removed her breathing device. She then began removing all the scenario papers and tablets from the desks. 

“What have you done to them?” Amy asked, finding herself not shocked, but intrigued. 

“Just a sprinkling of amnesia, that’s all. Our operatives will place them back into the dark room for the psychometric testing, and then they’ll do this song and dance all over again. They’ll have no memory of you, and no memory of the first scenario we gave you. They’ll believe they just … spaced out a little with the sensory deprivation. The applicants will then give industrious, creative answers to a different scenario, and go on their way. Each of them will, in seven working days, receive a letter from the Government advising them that they have not been selected.” 

He paused, and leaned forward with clasped hands, elbows on knees. 

“Amy, we need people who can take swift decisions for the greater good. As easy as we can manufacture gases which can control the precise memory loss of a room full of twenty-somethings, I’m afraid we can and we have manufactured the sort of virus described in your scenario. There are twelve such facilities across the world. In each location we need to place a person who can be trusted to … think of the greater good. Who can, to put it bluntly, wipe out an island, to save the rest of us, should things go wrong. Such individuals are unlikely to have to take such drastic steps, but are extremely well remunerated for the risk.” 

“What if I don’t want the job?” 

“Let’s play out that little ruse for a moment. If I believed you wished to walk away, you’d awaken in that dark room a little fuzzy, re-enter the test environment, and do your bit. Then, back home to mother. Or … we sign your new contract right here and now. You see, people tend to fall into two camps, Amy when under exam conditions … there are those who slide and those who rise. Your star has risen.” 

He flipped his tablet around and offered it to her. It was a contract, one with a considerable salary proposal, and with a stated destination which positively dripped with adventure. Mr Green offered her the stylus. She held it like a surgeon holds a scalpel. 

Her mother’s voice came at her in waves now; last-ditch efforts to convince her an imposter; unworthy. You’re not good enough for any of this. You’re a mouse. A little squeaky mouse. Scurry home to mother now, little mousey-mouse. 

Amy repelled those voices, and with great clarity, she understood that she need never see or hear from her mother again. Having already committed each page of her new contract to memory, she signed, and a glorious smile was upon her face.

END

JS Apsley is an aspiring author from Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Publishing short story prize 2024 for his debut fiction submission, "Immersion". He has placed various stories including: Bewildering Stories, Bright Flash Literary, Brussels Literary Review, The Colored Lens, Loft Books, Lowlife Lit Press, Lovecraftiana, and Underside Stories. See www.jsapsley.com.