This is crazy. I'm obviously going crazy. This can't be happening.
Mike crouched on the floor of the room he'd been in for the pastâwhat was it? Three days, they told him? He looked at the single bed with its simple summer blanket, the pillow tossed in the corner Everything was the color of old concrete, lifeless and oppressive.
This isn't real, he told himself. This can't be real.
He'd been locked in this room for three days, alone, but it felt like ages. How did you judge the passage of time? By the sun rising and setting? There was no window. For all he knew, the room was buried deep in the earth or floating on a spaceship in the void. By meals? He got the same dry biscuits through the drawer in the wall, the same metallic-tasting water from the tap over the sink.
Damn, I need a cup of coffee.
"Can I get a cup of coffee at least?" he shouted at the empty room.
"We are awaiting your decision, Mike. You have three more hours to make your final decision."
"I want to go home. That's my final decision."
"As we detailed in the user agreement, this is not one of the options."
"I didn't sign any user agreement. What are you talking about? What am I even a user of?"
Mike's hands trembled as he pressed them against the cold wall. The reality of the situation crashed over him in wavesâfirst disbelief, then anger, then a nauseating terror that made his knees weak. He thought of Sarah's laugh, of Tommy's sticky fingers reaching for him after breakfast. No. He couldn't think about that. Not now. If he started down that path, he'd crumble completely.
"Mike, we appreciate this is a big adjustment for you. That's why we're willing to explain the situation once more. Be advised, however, that this will be the last time. After this, we expect a final decision."
"Fine. OK."
"As a member of the human species residing on the planet you call Earth, you are one of one hundred people randomly chosen to take part in Earth's assessment process before potential acceptance into the Federation of Sentient Species. This process will determine if humanity will be accepted into the Federation, and at what status level. Failing to be accepted will result in the extermination of the human species. Acceptance can occur at five different status levels, each reflecting different benefits your species may receive. During the process, you will compete with representatives from nine other species under consideration. The overall score of each species will be calculated at the end. The top five species will be accepted into the Federation. You have two choices: decline to participate, which will result in your termination, or represent your species in the competition."
"If I choose termination, will you just grab someone else?"
"No. And let us be very clearâby termination, we mean you will be dead."
"Can I die in this competition?"
"Certainly."
"In horrible and unimaginable ways?"
"Certainly."
"So I can't just go home?"
"That is correct. Your only path home is through winning the competition."
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"The competition you won't tell me anything about?"
"That is correct."
"So I have no way of knowing my actual chances?"
"That is also correct. It seems you know all the answers to your questions. We see no benefit in continuing this discussion. When you are ready to give your final decision, let us know."
Mike stared at the grey wall, processing. One hundred humans. Ten species. Five winners. Simple math said humanity had a fifty percent chance, assuming all species were equal. But that was the problem - he had no idea if humans were the galactic equivalent of bringing a butter knife to a gunfight.
"Wait," he said suddenly. "You said top five species. What happens to the bottom five?"
Silence.
"Hello? I asked a question."
"Very well. The bottom five species are exterminated."
Mike's stomach dropped. "So it's not just about winning. It's about not losing."
"That is one interpretation."
"How many of the hundred humans have agreed to compete so far?"
"That information is not available."
Of course it wasn't. Mike ran his hands through his unwashed hair. Three days of the same biscuits, the same water, the same grey walls. His body odor was getting ripe. Was that part of the test? See how humans handled stress?
"I need more information," he said. "Something. Anything. What kind of competition? Physical? Mental? Building things? Fighting?"
"The nature of the competition will be revealed to participants who accept."
"That's circular logic and you know it."
"You have two hours and forty-seven minutes remaining."
Mike kicked the wall, immediately regretting it as pain shot through his bare foot. The aliens - or whatever they were - hadn't even given him shoes. Just grey pajamas that reminded him of hospital scrubs.
Think, Mike. Think.
If he said no, he died. If he said yes, he'd probably die anyway, but at least he'd know what happened to humanity. Maybe he could help somehow. Maybe the other ninety-nine humans were Navy SEALs and Nobel laureates and he was the diversity hire. Or maybe they were all as confused and average as him - a middle manager from Ohio who'd been grabbed from his apartment while binge-watching cooking shows.
"Can I send a message?" he asked. "To my family? Let them know I'm okay?"
"You are not okay. You are in an assessment facility awaiting potential termination."
"Thanks for the pep talk." Mike sat on the floor, back against the wall. "Are the other humans in rooms like this?"
"Yes."
Finally, an answer. "Can I meet them? If we're supposedly representing humanity, shouldn't we coordinate?"
"Coordination between same-species representatives is permitted after acceptance."
Another carrot dangling just out of reach. Mike closed his eyes, trying to imagine what his sister would say. She'd probably tell him to stop overthinking and just do it. His mom would cry. His dad would... hell, his dad would probably be proud he was chosen for something, even if it was potentially catastrophic.
"One more question," Mike said. "Why me? Why was I randomly selected?"
"The selection process ensured a representative sample of your species across multiple variables including geography, age, occupation, genetic diversity, and psychological profiles."
"So I'm... average?"
"You are representative."
Somehow that was worse than being special. He wasn't chosen because he was humanity's best hope. He was chosen because he was utterly, completely typical. Mike Kowalski, 34, married with a 3 year old son and another one on the way, representing humanity in an intergalactic death match.
He laughed. He couldn't help it. The laugh built from his stomach and erupted out of him, echoing off the grey walls.
"Is something amusing?" the voice asked.
"Everything," Mike gasped between laughs. "Everything about this is insane. You know what? Fine. I'll do it." The words came out before he could stop them, some desperate part of his brain making the choice before his conscious mind could interfere.
The laughter stopped as suddenly as it started.
"To clarify: you are accepting participation in the assessment process?"
Mike stood up, brushing off his grey pajamas. If he was going to die, at least he'd die knowing. And who knows? Maybe being average was exactly what humanity needed. Maybe the other species would send their warriors and geniuses, and humanity would send... Mike from Ohio. The guy who once won his office chili cook-off by adding chocolate to the recipe.
"Yes," he said. "I accept. Now what?"
A section of the wall he hadn't noticed before slid open, revealing a corridor lit by the same sourceless grey light.
"Please proceed to the preparation chamber. You will meet your fellow human representatives in fifteen minutes."
Mike took a deep breath and walked toward the opening. As he stepped through, he heard the voice one last time:
"Welcome to the assessment, Representative Kowalski. Try not to embarrass your species."
"No promises," Mike muttered, and walked into whatever came next.