"So, Mr. Jones," the Dictator said, "Who should I put my money on this year?"
Dean Jones, Program Information Coordinator, took the proffered seat and deposited a large folder on the Dictator's desk.
The way the Program worked was thus: fifty classes were selected for the shortlist, and researchers compiled all the necessary background information about all 1500 students, not knowing which class was to be chosen. The actual selection only took place the day before the scheduled start of the Program, to minimise the possibility of information leaks, so even the Dictator did not know much about the contestants at the start of the game. Mr. Dean Jones, therefore, had the responsibility of debriefing the country's supreme leader about the group of twenty-four Year Eleven students currently occupied in killing each other off on a remote island. He had studied all their details at length and was confident he knew them pretty well. Nevertheless, any meeting with the Dictator was always a little unnerving. The man had eyes that could go right into your soul.
Dean accepted a brandy from one of the silent Party men who always seemed to hover about the place, and cleared his throat before beginning.
"Well, we've an interesting class this time round, Sir. A lot of potential. I know you like the outcome to be determined well in advance so your bet will be safe, but I have to say, the range of contestants is making for exciting television."
"Yes, I've just had it from the Ministry of Information that a high proportion of phone traffic last night involved discussion concerning the Program," said the Dictator. "Who, in your professional opinion, is going to win?"
Dean sipped his brandy. "Girl #12 seems like a solid bet, Sir."
"Ah, yes. The student with the machine gun," he observed. "Stats?"
"Her name is Bethany Tupper. 175 centimetres tall, 57 kilograms in weight, 5 kills so far, but a bit... how shall we say... dopey. She kills and forgets to pick up her victims' hand luggage. Still, our psych team have checked her file and she seems mentally sound. She hasn't displayed any sociopathic behaviour patterns or abnormal psychology previously."
The Dictator rubbed his chin. "Interesting, very interesting. If she wins, I'd like it to be made clear that she is just a normal young woman obeying government instruction, and there is no trauma or upheaval in her past. It'd make a nice change from those... troubled... young people who have won the game in recent years. Bethany Tupper, the girl who knows the meaning of duty. Yes, I could see that. Continue."
"It's been a bit of a one-woman show so far," Dean admitted, "but Boy #4 has two kills also. William Dalton, 178 centimetres, 64 kilograms. An ambitious one. Wealthy family – or used to be – and he's the worst case of personal inadequacy issues and familial pressure I've ever seen. Might go far."
"Not proletarian enough," said the Dictator. "He can only win if he displays signs of class consciousness during the game. Anyone else that's caught your eye?"
"There are a couple of others who could come into the fore, given the right circumstances." Dean flicked through his notes. "An athletic boy is usually a sensible choice. Class 11AT has a few of those... there's our megaphone man Dave Brunning, James Dyer, Sami Modha – a martial arts expert, that one – and Jack Trull. Out of all of them, I'd fancy the chances of Mr. Sami Modha, Boy #9. 180 centimetres, 78 kilograms, and hasn't shown a smidge of fear or concern about his current predicament, just arranging the bodies of his school friends into pleasing positions – closing their eyes, cleaning up the blood, that sort of thing. I for one don't like him. Creepy necrophiliac."
The Dictator leaned forward. "What about the political one? Boy #2, I believe... yes. Josh Bradshaw. I hope he is in no danger of winning?"
"Absolutely not. He doesn't appear to have a strategy so far, but if he shows promise, we can have Richie get him with the danger zones. There's good potential for penning a contestant in the north of the island, and the southern peninsula could easily be cut off, if needs be. It might look like anarchy out there at the moment, but everything is entirely under control."
"Good. Any inkling of who might be the next elimination?"
"Dave Brunning isn't looking too good. I think he's taken a bullet or two. If Bethany keeps up the chase, she'll run him right into the sea."
"No, I mean..." The Dictator folded his hands. "Tell me about the weak ones. The small, the frail, the mentally deranged. Tell me what you think might become of them. I... I want to know."
Inwardly, Dean shuddered, but kept up his pleasant demeanour. "Well, the most unlikely contender in purely physical terms is Emma Litchfield, Girl 5. 153 centimetres tall – or short, I should say, and only 49 kilograms in weight. You could just pick her up and snap her in two."
The Dictator's heavy face moved as he licked his lips. "Oh. That's nice. Tell me more."
"Certainly, sir. Of course, you'll expect the girls to be lighter and less physically strong, but I'd put Joe Wright, Boy 11, right into their category. 168 centimetres tall and with the physique of a boy five years younger. He also displays a tendency towards depression and gloominess. We have his school counsellor's record here, and then there was the suicide attempt in the early hours. If he hadn't picked up Stephan Andropoulos, he'd probably not have made it through the night. Other than that... well, Alicia Brown, Girl 1, shows a strong predilection to faith-based episodes, and this dubious claim about knowing a way off the island... I've got her earmarked for a danger zone on the midnight report tonight, if she still has those girls with guns penned in her cottage. That should get them moving."
"Very good," said the Dictator. "I commend your hard work. Leave your notes with me, if you will, and I will have a look at them. Dismissed."
The meeting was over. On his way out to his car, Dean Jones called Richie Stuart's hotel room and explained what had gone on at the meeting. He held the phone away from his ear as Richie predictably erupted with rage.
"Josh can't win, Will can't win, Alicia's out, he's telling me where to put my danger zones? You should've told him to go fuck himself. It's my reputation on the line if I interfere and kill off someone with a fan following, not his. This isn't the fucking country, it's the Program. We dragged them to that island and we put collars on their necks and we gave them guns, but we have no military presence on the ground. We can't make them do anything, we just watch the little bastards. Someone should tell that fucker that you can't control what goes on in the Program."
