Chapter 2: The lacy nightie.

It’s nearly midnight and I can’t get to sleep. The first session of the Argonaut starts in nine hours. I still can’t get over my sponsor’s generous offer that has allowed me to attend. I realise that the very late arrival of the sponsor’s offer confirms that I’m a last minute substitute. Given my father’s blemished political record, I suspect my anonymous sponsor is scraping the bottom of the barrel in choosing me. But he or she did, and that has enabled me to be here at the old boarding school which serves as the headquarters of the Bureau of Ancillary Services. The original school closed decades ago when Argon’s junta decided to close the last remaining links with the decaying towns and cities beyond the borders of Argon’s self-proclaimed territory, effectively isolating us from the world. There was no need for schools with boarding facilities after that.

Every three months, Argon’s Bureau of Ancillary Services accepts the applications of exactly fifty settlement adults between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven. Successful applicants become contestants in the Argonaut, which consists of a series of interviews and tests supervised by an assessment panel. Some of the interviews are broadcast on the news-feeds throughout Argon and its settlements, with the intention of attracting future employers for the hopeful contestants should they secure a city work permit. The number of permits available each quarter is a closely guarded secret. Consequently, passing all the tests doesn’t automatically result in a contestant being granted a permit. And obtaining a permit doesn’t guarantee a good job. Not all city jobs are better than those in the settlements, but that doesn’t stop the competitiveness for the permits. That competitiveness often includes a range of sabotage and underhand tricks targeting the weaker contestants.

These days the Argonaut doesn’t automatically favour the handful of contestants who have served a ten-year term in the military, and who are now into their twenties. The leaders of some settlements still prefer the old tradition of favouring the applications of those who have served in the military. Former soldiers are often trained to do well in the Argonaut’s tests. A contestant’s success can give a boost to their own settlement’s ranking in the eyes of the junta. A ranking that determines the priority given to the funding of a settlement’s civic improvements.

It’s no secret which contestants were formerly in the military. Knowledge of their status is intended to intimidate the other contestants. Their names and reputations are etched in every other contestant’s mind; Paulo and Chloe from Eisenhower, Heidi from Grant, and Mansel from Bourbon. All contestants have the support of volunteer helpers who do everything from offering advice to helping solve minor problems. These helpers are an eclectic selection of oddballs and do-gooders from among the city’s bored residents. Not all of them are model Argon citizens, and three of the female contestants have already complained about being groped by one of the helpers.

I give up trying to sleep, and I decide to take a walk around the old school building housing the fifty contestants for the current Argonaut. I slip my short dressing gown over my even shorter nightie. Normally I sleep naked, but I had the sense to borrow a nightie and gown from my twelve-year-old sister. I’m not a blushing maiden, but sleeping naked in a mixed gender dormitory is asking for trouble.

The eight dormitories are designed to accommodate six people in each. Seven are single-sex dormitories. However, the late applicants, like me, must put up with eight of us crammed into the room, which now houses three male and five female contestants. Everywhere is quiet as I head towards the communal dining area. Everyone else must have had no trouble in falling asleep. In Harper’s case that probably has more to do with the quantity of alcohol he consumed during the evening meal, since he’s asleep on the dining room floor. Suddenly a movement catches my eye. I duck behind a door in case it is Patrick. He also comes from Buchanan, and he’s the closest person I have to a friend in this place. I’m not certain I want him seeing me dressed like this. I watch the figure at the other end of the dormitory for a few moments before realising it is one of the robots that clean up after us. They try to be invisible, hovering just out of sight unless one is needed to clean up after us. The robot is using our absence to finish clearing away the empty glasses and plates from our evening meal.

The robot leaves the room through a side door. It dawns on me that there must be a service corridor somewhere in this rambling jumble of rooms to enable the robots to come and go. The main door to this wing of the old school is locked and monitored at this time of night. The sophisticated sensors provide security against intruders, and ensure the contestants don’t do anything underhand before the assessment begins. I feel the urge to explore.