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The Executive Suit

Tony scowled. The cramped cell stank of stale sweat.

And fear.

Five candidates shrouded shoulder to toe in biosympathetic sensors, each armed with grenades, Semtex and Cutlass automatic; the sniper's machine gun.

Tony patted his shoulder pack.

Five days supply of food. A necessity.

"God, why do they make us wait?"

Startled Tony glanced at Jerry. Good old Jerry. The least favored contender; seventeen stone of flaccid lard packed within a shimmer of purple.

Purple.

Purple for Jerry.

Yellow for Simon.

Orange for Willey.

Magenta for Henry.

Crimson for Tony.

Green for Comms.

Blue for neutral.

He shook his head. Three days training had drilled the irritant code into his thoughts.

"Do, do you really think this'll take five days?"

Willey, Tony noted. Two months training and then the compnay taken over. Cruel bastards, Willey shouldn't be here.

But They know best. They always do.

Lounging in armor plated offices, wise heads sagely nodding, far removed from the danger of the Tests. They know.

Willey caught his glance, the youngsters face was pale.

"You've done this before, Tony. What's it like?"

"What's it like?" Tony shrugged, a bitter smile spasmed in his face. "Don't think," he warned the youngster, "don't think what it's like. Think of the job, and shoot. That's all you've got to do. Shoot to kill, if you want to work."

The youngster trembled violently.

"It's not too late to back out," Tony added.

"Hmmph. What to Tony? Life as a government overdraft, living in cess pits with the Nerds," Jerry grimaced. "I'll take my chances out there rather than slave for a metal scrapheap. Anything'll be better than that."

"Even death?" Simon's voice cut the air.

Simon impressed Tony. His sparse observations never failed to encapsulate reality. This time they sealed the cell with a terse silence.