The Test

by Sylvain Neuvel

  —It’s . . . his family, you gormless git!

  Tom regrets using those words. Deep is obviously an idiot, but that’s no reason to be unprofessional. What matters now is containment.

  —So what? He passed!

  Tom no longer regrets using those words. He’s getting agitated. He can see it all. A minister resigning. The Prime Minister denying everything. They’ll find a patsy, or two, or three. Containment.

  —Laura, close the door. No one leaves this room.

  Laura gets up and locks everyone inside. Deep resets the big screen to a live view. Idir is on his knees, crying.

  —Guys! What’s going on? He passed K3. He volunteered. He volunteered like . . . five times! He was willing to die right there and then! Did you see that?

  Tom’s furious.

  —You. Stupid. Little. Shit. You can’t use the man’s family!

  —He. Passed!

  —You can’t do that! You can’t use his family!

  —Why?

  —Because . . . it’s against the rules.

  —No. It’s not! You’re talking about Appendix A, item number four. That doesn’t apply!

  If Deep is guilty of anything, not knowing what’s in the manual is not a part of it.

  British Values Assessment—Appendix A—General Hostage Parameters.

  4. Under no circumstances shall an operator use a person having any personal or professional connection with the subject as a candidate in a kill exercise. To do so would nullify the results.

  Tom takes a deep breath.

  —Don’t you think that, maybe, being his wife and kid qualifies as “having a connection”?

  —Yeah, maybe. But it only talks about one! There’s nothing in there about using two people he knows.

  Tom wonders how much more trouble he’d be in if he also beat some sense into this kid.

  —That’s because they didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to ever do that, you . . .

  Pillock. Plonker. Prat. Tosser. Tom realizes he doesn’t need to say the words out loud to get the satisfaction.

  Deep still feels he should be congratulated, not scolded. He goes on to explain that item number four was, in his humble opinion, meant for all the other kills where the subject has to pick between two people. Obviously, in that situation, choosing between your best friend and someone you’ve never met wouldn’t be much of a test. But K3 doesn’t require choosing. It requires self-sacrifice, and Idir did that, several times. Deep’s spirit-of-the-law speech doesn’t seem to move Tom, or Laura, for that matter. Deep doesn’t know Tom, but Laura . . . he thought Laura of all people would understand.

  Deep is beginning to realize the depth of the hole he dug for himself. Tom grabs Deep’s BVA manual from the desk and flips it to Appendix A.

  —How about this one? Did you think about this one?

  Item 11. Under no circumstances shall an operator create a minor as a candidate during a kill exercise.

  —Create! It says create. I used his real family.

  —No you didn’t! How do I know you didn’t? Because none of it is real, you moron. None of them are! If they’re in there, you made them. Now grab a pen and start filling out forms. We’ll be here for a while. . . . You better hope that little stunt of yours doesn’t land us all in jail.

  Jail? Deep doesn’t understand.

  —What forms? We need to finish the test! He hasn’t done K4 yet.

  Laura shakes her head.

  —You really don’t get it, do you?

  —No! I don’t get it. He passed! . . . What kind of forms?

  —There’s the incident report. You’ll need to explain what happened. I have to sign off on the test interruption.

  —What? He—

  —He passed, I know. But it’s over now. . . . Then we need authorization to erase this whole mess. They’ll want to make sure this never happened. We need a warrant to wipe his memory without a failed test, another one for deportation.

  —Stop. Stop. You just said this wasn’t a failed test. I know I’ve said this before, but he passed K3. He did! You saw it! Don’t punish him for a technicality. Don’t . . . don’t send his family away. Can’t we just keep going? Finish the test?

  —No. That’s not possible anymore.

  —Why?! He’s here. He’s doing it. He can do this.

  —K3 doesn’t count, Deep. You fucked it up. Even if it did, what are you going to do about K4?

  —What do you mean?

  —Imagine you just escaped the zombie apocalypse and watched all your friends being eaten alive. Now I’m asking you which fabric softener smells nicer.

  It is just now dawning on Deep that no matter how clever his rendition of K3 may have been, he didn’t anticipate the problems it might cause for Idir in K4. During the BVA, subjects are placed in traumatic situations. While government studies show that the vast majority of subjects recover completely given the right medication, most show symptoms of Acute Stress Disorder in the immediate aftermath, often during the test. ASD is similar to PTSD in many ways—patients suffering from the former will be diagnosed with the latter if the symptoms persist—but with a focus on dissociative symptoms. These include, but are not limited to, derealization and depersonalization—nothing around you feels real, not even your own thoughts or emotions. Detachment, emotional unresponsiveness, and a general feeling of numbness.

  —You’re saying he won’t make the right decision because of his dissociative symptoms?

  —I’m saying he won’t give a shit! It doesn’t matter who or what you put in front of him. He won’t care! This is a man who just watched his wife die! You made him kill his wife! Do you get that? Do you really think he’ll care about the asshole or the single mother now? He can’t continue.

  —Is there any way to fix this?

  Tom emerges from the filing cabinet with a stack of paper in his hands.

  —What are you two talking about?

  —Deep here wants us to finish the test.

  —It’s over, son.

  —No, it’s not! He can continue! He can!

  Tom looks for the score sheet on the desk but can’t find it.

  —What did he get on the written test?

  Laura gets the score sheet from underneath Deep’s manual.

  —He . . . he did question nine, but one of them he didn’t know the answer to. We had to give it to him.

  Tom whispers to himself. He’s never been good with numbers and needs to do the math out loud.

  —Eight points won’t do it, son. He needed K3 to pass. Even if he aced K4 now, which he won’t do, that’s not enough. Wipe him clean and put him on a plane.

  No one is noticing Idir on the large screen. He’s pounding at the floor with both hands.

  —No! He passed! He’s selfless, and courteous, and environmentally conscious. He passed!

  Deep is upset. He’s not thinking about himself at this point. Surely he failed his own evaluation, but he wants to see Idir through this. He needs Idir to succeed. Guilt hasn’t set in yet. What Deep is experiencing is just narcissistic identification and a very strong case of narrative transportation. At this point, Deep is incapable of separating Idir’s success of failure from his own. He’s so caught up in the simulation that his feelings and opinions are filtered through the rules of the game. He’s seeing the world in BVA terms. Idir is environmentally conscious because he recycled the plastic wrapper. He’s selfless because he chose the preferred option in K3. He’s a good man because he has thirty-two points. Good men don’t get put on the plane.

  —Can we give him another chance? Erase his memory and let him try again?

  Tom waits for Laura to answer.

  —Can’t do it.

  —But the manual says it’s completely safe.

  —It is. It won’t kill him. But I’ve put people on the plane, and it’s not as pretty as what the brochure says. He’ll forget everything that happened, that’s for sure. He’ll also forget he has a dog, or where he went to school.
He might forget what he likes for breakfast, how much he loves his wife. He won’t be the same man, and if he fails again . . . We do this to him twice and we’ll turn him into a vegetable. I’m sorry.

  —He won’t fail! He hasn’t failed! He passed!

  —I know. I know. I wish there was something we could do, but there isn’t. It’s time to let go.

  She turns off the monitor showing Idir in the hospital bed. She hands Deep his manual and his notebook. Deep picks them up and grabs his backpack from the floor. He gets up and walks away with his head down. He mumbles:

  —He passed. . . .

  Laura reaches forward to turn off the large screen. She pauses.

  —Wait. Wait.

  —What?

  —Look!

  8.

  IDIR IS KNEELING ACROSS the window from his wife’s body, his head against the floor. He’s crying, whimpering, hitting the ground with his fist. He looks up at Tidir’s lifeless body and starts pounding with both hands, screaming. The man in charge asks him to stop. Idir doesn’t.

  In the control room, Laura grabs the microphone.

  —I think he’s losing it. We need him to calm down.

  Behind the glass wall, computer technicians are frantically typing instructions.

  On the big screen, the man in charge knocks on the window with his fist.

  —Samaritan, you cut this shit right now. . . . Did you hear what I just said? Stop it now or I’m going to really hurt you.

  Idir is pounding harder and harder.

  —Now you’ve done it, Samaritan. What’s your son’s name? Do you want to make him an orphan? He’s a little short on parents already.

  Idir doesn’t stop. The man in charge nods at the terrorist in the test room and Idir gets the butt of an M-16 to the back of the head. He falls to the side but won’t stay down. He shakes it off, touches the back of his head, and wipes the blood on his shirt.

  Laura gets closer to the microphone, but Tom stops her.

  —No, no. Wait.

  Idir rushes the man standing over him. He grabs him by the legs and sends him to the ground. Idir is on top, punching as hard as he can. Blood gushes from the man’s nose. Idir keeps hitting, screaming. He unleashes all his rage; fists keep raining down until the man’s face is no longer a face. Idir gets up and grabs the weapon.

  In the control room, everyone just stares. Even the technicians have abandoned their computer to watch.

  Idir points the weapon at the man in charge and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He lowers the weapon to look at it, pushes and pulls the arming handle a few times. He tries firing again. Nothing. He looks at the weapon on both sides and finds the safety mechanism. He lets out a small sigh of relief, then the other four terrorists start firing at him.

  Idir stands in the middle of the test room. Windows are exploding all around him. He gets hit in the leg, then the gut. A bullet tears through his chest. Another. And another.

  Laura turns the small monitor back on. Idir’s body is convulsing on the hospital bed. His heartbeat goes through the roof, then he flatlines. Nurses run to Idir’s side and check his pupils. On the large screen, Idir drops to his knees, his body riddled with bullet holes. He tries to say something. Blood gushes from his mouth. He falls backwards.

  The control room is silent, except for the heart monitor alarm. Laura is the first one to react.

  —He needs a doctor. Get the doctor in there!

  A nurse pushes a cart next to Idir’s bed. A doctor walks in. The nurse cuts Idir’s robe open. The doctor grabs the paddles from the cart and everyone stands clear. No change in pulse. The doctor hits him with another charge and Idir’s body jumps. On the large screen, his bloodied corpse moves in unison.

  Deep is squeezing Laura’s arm hard, but she can’t feel a thing.

  —Come on! Come on, friend! Live!

  One more electric shock. Idir’s chest rises as he takes his first breath. Everyone looks at the heart monitor. They feel their own hearts slowing down to the regular beat of the machine. The doctor checks Idir’s vitals, then gives a thumbs-up to the camera.

  Deep looks at his hand on Laura’s arm and lets go. She just now notices the pain. Deep puts his hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

  —He’ll live?

  —Looks that way.

  Deep starts crying like a baby. Laura smiles at him.

  —Oh, don’t cry. You know what that means, right?

  —What?

  —We have ourselves a hero!

  —A . . . We do, don’t we? Does that mean he . . . ?

  —With flying colours.

  —He passed?!

  —He passed.

  Deep senses the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders. He doesn’t feel the rush of victory—perhaps it’s not his to feel—but a soothing sense of order. Idir’s success strengthens Deep’s faith in the universe, his belief in cosmic justice, his conviction that good always triumphs over evil.

  —This is control. You can start the awakening.

  Laura isn’t easily moved. She’s seen too much in her years as an operator. Yet she is surprised at how happy she feels—for Idir, yes, but mostly for Deep.

  —You should go down there.

  —What?

  —You should go.

  —Can I?

  —Yeah! Go! Go!

  Deep grabs his backpack and is about to leave the room. His thoughts turn to himself.

  —What about me? What’s going to happen to me?

  —We’ll see. Either way, I think you should be the one to tell him.

  Deep smiles. His future is uncertain. He’s proven himself unfit to be an operator, but this is the first time a subject has died during the BVA. They will want to study what happened, gather as much data as they can from Idir’s simulation. They’ll want to talk to Deep. They’ll want to talk to Deep a lot. That might prove difficult if he’s a disgruntled former trainee with an ironclad nondisclosure agreement. More than anything, they won’t want any of this to get out. In the end, it might be better for everyone if Deep continues working here in some capacity. One thing is certain: he has earned himself a place in BVA history. The one whose hero died. Right now, none of it matters. There is only one thing in Deep’s mind.

  Idir is a citizen.

  9.

  MY NAME IS IDIR Jalil, and I’m a citizen.

  I own a small dental practice in Bayswater. My wife, Tidir, is a journalist. She writes a weekly column in an online paper. We have two children, Ramzi and Salma. Both are doing very well in school. We are well liked by our neighbours, I think. My wife and I volunteer at the local charity shop. We are a typical middle-class family.

  It was a year ago that I took the test for my family and earned us the right to stay. I remember everything about the test itself, every detail, down to the smells, but I have almost no memory of what came after. I remember dying—at least I thought I was dying. I woke up in a hospital bed. There were nurses, doctors. There was a young man trying to tell me things. I would not listen. All I wanted was to keep dying.

  I do remember stepping back into the waiting room, seeing my wife, alive. I sobbed like a baby. I couldn’t stop, didn’t try to. I was . . . so happy to see her. The small wrinkles around her eyes. The pores of her skin. She felt undeniably real, and seeing her erased the lingering doubt I had that this was still happening in my head. For a moment, a second or so, I felt like everything was going to be fine, that the dream was over and that our lives would go on as they had before. “So? How did it go?” she asked. I answered with a smile. Then she looked at me and I saw it. Pride. Her eyes were overflowing with it. I felt my soul turn to dust. She was proud of me.

  I could not tell her. If anyone found out, we’d be stripped of our rights and sent back to the very place we ran from. Even in a world without consequence, this was not—is not—something I could ever share with her. She wouldn’t understand. Or she would. That is the problem. She would say she doesn’t blame me, that she’d
have made the same choice if she were in my place. She would call me courageous, and she would mean all those things because it was all a simulation and none of it was real. It’s easy to forgive something that didn’t happen. But it did. I was there. I was there, and I told someone to shoot her in the head. Virtual or not, it was my reality. What I did, the choices I made . . . I did what I did and I chose what I chose. I did not pretend. The world around me might have been a fairy tale, but I was . . . me. Always me. They could not simulate that.

  Every day I try to get better at living with myself. The pills they give me make the guilt bearable, and I take them religiously. If I am alone and absorbed in a book or a movie, I sometimes forget about it all. Tidir understands. She knows I keep something dark from her, but she did the same for us in Teheran and that makes it my right to return the favour. She wants to help in any way she can, but she doesn’t understand that it is her presence I can’t bear. I can’t stand it. The pain, the guilt, her hand on the glass pane. I resent my wife for still loving me. I think less of her because she forgives what I can’t. I think less of myself for feeling that way.

  I do what I can to be pleasant, but there is a distance between us, a chasm I dare not traverse. I find things to do when she talks to me—I pick up after the kids, I do the dishes, anything to justify having my back to her. I have not looked her in the eye since the test. I avoid her gaze as best I can. I am afraid she will see right through me and realize what I am. I could not live with that.

  There is a darkness in me, now. A monster awakened from a very long sleep. I suppose it was always there, but now it’s running loose. I get angry at things, insignificant things. I snap at Tidir for being kind to me. I scold my children for being children. I choose my words carefully like I would a weapon. I hurt the people I love. I watch it all happen like I would a movie. I do not trust the man in the mirror anymore.