On the fourth day, we were tested and interviewed. Various officious-looking clerks wearing the same kind of military garb as Gorn and Sugra subjected us individually to a battery of tests that took much of the day. They then conducted general interviews.
At the end of the whole thing, each of us was taken into a small room we hadn’t known about for a final interview.
She said her name was Dr. Crouda, and I knew immediately by her whites and her medical insignia that she had to be a psych. That really didn’t bother me—not only was I trained and fortified against the general run of psych tricks, but I was in some ways the creation of the best psychs in the Confederacy. What I needed, though, was a good performance that would cement my cover and do me the most good overall.
She motioned me to a chair, sat back behind a small desk, and looked over my files for a moment. “You are Tarin Bul?”
I shuffled with kid fidgets in my seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you are fourteen?”
I nodded. “A few months ago. I’m not too sure of the time. It’s been a real long time since I could remember anything but prisons and psychs—beg pardon, ma’am.”
She nodded and couldn’t suppress a slight smile. “I understand perfectly. Did you know that as far as we can tell you are the youngest person ever sent to the Warden Diamond.”
“I sorta guessed that,” I answered truthfully.
“Your education and training and your genetic inclinations are toward administrative work, but you’re hardly ready at your age. You realize that, don’t you?”
Again I could only nod. “I understand.” Right now, in the normal course of things, Tarin Bul would still be in school.
She sighed and looked over her reports. Real written files, I noted. How novel. “Now, your tests show a true inclination for math and a strong grasp of computer principles and operations. Have you given any thought to what you’d like to be?”
I thought a moment, choosing the best tack. Finally I settled on the one I thought most in character. “Lord of the Diamond,” I told her.
Again the smile. “Well, I understand that. But, realistically, considering your abbreviated education and your likes and dislikes—is there anything you really find yourself drawn to?”
I thought a moment. “Yes, ma’am. Freighter pilot.” That wasn’t much of a risk, since it was right in character—but, oh how I wished I really were a freighter pilot! Money, mobility, status, and a lot more.
“That’s not unreasonable,” she said, thinking it over, “but you are a long way from the age at which you could even enter pilot training.” She paused and threw me the typical psych curve. “Have you ever had any sexual experiences either with girls or with boys?”
I acted shocked. “No, ma’am!”
“What do you think of girls?”
I shrugged. “Oh, they’re okay.”
She nodded to herself and scribbled something, then asked, “How do you feel about being here? Being sent here, I mean?”
Again I shrugged. “Beats bein’ dead, I guess. I haven’t seen enough of this world to tell otherwise.”
Again the nod and the scribble. “I think we have enough for now—Tarin, isn’t it? You may go. Tomorrow someone will be in to talk to you, and then we’ll know where you’re going.”
For now that sounded fair enough. I left.
I hadn’t really had any problems with that battery they threw at me earlier. I had seen such tests before and understood exactly how they were weighted and scored. I had skewed my aptitudes upward in certain specific areas, like electronics and mechanics, as well as computers, while keeping the Tarin Bul background as consistent with what would be expected of my breeding and training. I could see and understand their problem with me, though. The fact was, I was too old to fit directly into their fixed planetary training system and too young to go to work properly. The best I could do was present myself as some sort of smart-ass genius and hope for the best.
On the fourth day my skin turned an orange-brown, as did that of four of the others. In a sense the change excited me, since I knew now for the first time that something major really was happening inside me; but it gave me a chilling feeling as well.
Gorn and Sugra were obviously pleased by the development, and the morning was spent with the five of us undergoing a few physical tests. The first one was simple and basic. I was dressed only in the flimsy hospital gown, when they took me out into that cold corridor and down to the first level of the building. For a while I thought they were pulling some kind of fast one—I felt a chill when the door opened and we stepped out, but the chill was rapidly replaced with a feeling of growing warmth and comfort, until I felt perfectly normal once again.
I was not normal, though, which I realized just by looking at the backs of my hands. The burnt orange quickly faded out, replaced by a more neutral grayish coloration. And yet, I felt normal—felt just fine, thank you, and as human as ever.
The first level was now staffed with a receptionist and a few people moved in and out; but the place was by no means crowded. We were the object of a few stares, but little else.
Satisfied that we felt all right, Gorn led the five of us outside into the street. Again there was that slightly chilling feeling, followed by a comforting warmth, and that was that. I felt warm as toast and perfectly comfortable despite the fact I was barefoot and wearing nothing more than a glorified bedsheet. In a sense, the test was reassuring, since some of the fear of the unknown and uncontrollable vanished with the realization that I really didn’t feel unusual or extraordinary or different.
Satisfied with our progress, they led us back to our quarters. When I entered, I felt a really strong blast of heat, which faded as quickly as had the chill, leaving me feeling pretty much as I had in the street outside. Now at least I felt like a Medusan. I still wished they would tell us everything about this Warden transformation—I was quite sure they were withholding a lot of information on the theory that what you didn’t know you couldn’t use—but there was no way to approach the problem directly. I’d have to wait and learn in the streets, or by accident, dammit.
That afternoon those of us who had “acclimated”—as they called it—were summoned, one by one, into the small office. When my turn came I walked in, expecting another psych, but found instead a man I’d never seen before.
“Tarin Bul? I am Staff Supervisor Trin of the Transport Workers Guild. I’m told you have ambitions to be a pilot.”
My emotions soared. “Yes, sir!”
“Well, that’s possible. Your literacy level is off the scale, your mathematical level nearly that, and you have a command of computer theory far beyond any expectations. But your education is still not really advanced, and you’ll need some more height and a couple of years of age before we can enroll you in pilot’s school, if we do. However, you have been assigned to the Guild. Now, don’t get your hopes up. You’re coming in rather awkwardly—considering your age and experience, or lack of it. You don’t quite fit. Nor do your tests really indicate a direction or focus. That means you’re in the right Guild for your ambitions, but at the lowest level. We can’t put you in school—you’re too old for the integrated program and too young for advanced training. Therefore, it has been decided that you will be given a position—we call them slots—at the lowest level of the Guild, as well as administered self-study computer courses in a number of areas to allow you some preparation for the fuutre.”