Fortune’s Gambit by Ed Dearnley

Ashley Lefey had seven outfits, a different colour for each day of the week. She’d developed the system whilst interning at Facebook, inspired by Mark Zuckerberg’s famous elimination of small unnecessary decisions. Unlike Zuckerberg, her wardrobe routine didn’t condemn her to a life of monastic grey t-shirts.

Wednesday was her day to dress in green – an emerald suit that clashed against the colourful swirls on the armchair behind her. She pressed her fingertips together and stared across the room with a thin, quizzical smile. Her scalp was entirely hairless, no doubt another timesaving optimisation.

Ten minutes ago, Lefey had seemed the exception to Lena’s previous interviewees: chatty, open, almost human. But now she’d returned to type. A billionaire. After eight months and fourteen interviews, Lena knew them well.

There were two kinds of billionaire. The first provided a monologue rather than an interview, speaking at a million miles an hour from the moment they swept into the room to the second their PA hustled them out of the door. By contrast, the others barely said anything, greeting each question with a cryptic smile, an uncomfortable pause and a few words carefully selected to imply their minds worked on higher planes than mere humans.

The handsome young PR minder at Lefey’s side shuffled in his chair. He tapped on his watch and raised three fingers in the air.

“Ms Lefey?”

Her lips quivered. “You’ll have to define success for me, Lena.”

“The dictionary says it’s achieving your goals.”

Lefey forced a laugh, a short squeak to match the fake smile. “My dad was a postman. His goal was the same every day: finishing his round early. Do you think he was successful?”

“He raised the UK’s youngest Black billionaire,” said Lena. She lifted an eyebrow. “What did you get him for Christmas?”

“So, to you, success is about money?”

Lena looked away, staring through the glass wall of the meeting room into the kitchenette opposite. A group of youthful employees huddled around a coffee machine, smiling and laughing as they waited for their drinks. Half of them wore green.

“Anything else?” There was a hint of impatience in Lefey’s voice.

“Power,” said Lena.

“There we go. And?”

“Status.”

Lefey broke the act, grinning from ear to ear. “And that’s why I’m still here. You’re not really writing for a student paper, are you, Lena?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve done hundreds of interviews with student journalists, and they always ask the same thing. Business ethics, ESG standards, how I sleep at night when people are starving. Boring. You seem more interested in startup structures and my early career.”

“So, why am I here?”

The Mona Lisa smile returned. “You’re trying to flatter me. You want a job.”

Lena put a hand to her mouth, attempting to stifle the rising convulsions. It was futile – she burst out laughing.

“Ashley, I don’t want a job from you. I want to be you.”

#

The square was busy. It always was at that time of the month.

Lines of black-suited colonists snaked around the fountains and plinths, queuing for the tubeway trains that would speed them up the beanstalk to the transports waiting in orbit. Uniformed soldiers shepherded the lines, offering words of encouragement and ration packs to their charges. The grey drones hovering above their heads offered something else – not everyone accepted their result.

Jeni’s eyes drifted over the blocky concrete buildings lining the square and settled on the distant towers around the spaceport. A tiny wedge-shaped craft was rising into the air on a column of flame and steam. As she watched, it pitched over and sped towards the city, etching a fine white contrail across the cloudless sky.

A muffled thump rippled through the air as the craft passed overhead, drowning out the shouts of a young woman pushing through the lines towards her. The woman reached forward and touched Jeni’s hand, then raised a cap into the air and twirled on the spot. Her bright blue jacket billowed out behind her.

She’d had a good result. Or a good enough one – Venka had never been especially ambitious.

Jeni smiled at her friend. “You got pilot. Congratulations.”

“I stuck at level twenty,” laughed Venka. “No need to go any further.”

“You’ll get to fly though,” said Jeni. She waved a hand at the contrail evaporating into the autumn winds. “Maybe they’ll put you on one of those.”

Venka shrugged. “Nothing that glamorous, but I’ll see the stars. Are you in today too?”

There was no need to confirm. Venka knew the answer.

“Still hoping for a management post?”

Jeni shook her head. She’d always known, she’d just never told anyone.

“I want to be an Alpha.”

Venka’s smile disappeared in an instant.

 “Well, good fortune with that,” said Venka. She tried to look upbeat, but there was a tear in her eye. “Let me know where they send you.”

#

“What did Branson say?”

The PR minder jumped to his feet, knocking over a stack of books on a side table. He whispered something into Lefey’s ear; she shook her head and shooed him away.

Lena woke her phone and swiped across the screen. She could recall her interview with the Virgin tycoon almost word-for-word, but it paid to look thorough.

“He said success comes from spotting opportunities before the competition.”

Lefey hooted with laughter. “You can’t deny the old man has a sense of humour. What about the others?”

“All variations on the same thing,” answered Lena, shrugging her shoulders. “Work hard, employ the right people, never give up.” She looked up from her phone, meeting Lefey’s gaze. “What about you?”

A succession of coughs erupted out of the minder. The forced smile reappeared for a split second, then fell away just as quickly.

“Risk appetite and luck. That’s all.”

The PR man sighed and pulled out his phone.

“So, education, drive and social background have nothing to do with it?”

“Think about it, Lena. How many smart, driven, privileged people are there in the world? Millions. And how many get to my position? A few hundred, at best.”

“The Financial Times said you have a unique ability to foresee the future of work.”

Lefey leaned forward, her gold hoop earrings rocking back and forth. “My parents have that article framed in their hallway. Fawning crap, all of it.”

“But you saw the opportunity before anyone else. Cyamis does everything from reviewing your presentation to chatting about the football scores. Half the world’s home workers can’t function without it.”

“I had a hunch about AI workmates,” said Lefey, shaking her head. “I raised sixteen million on the back of that hunch and launched three months before the pandemic struck. At any other time, Microsoft would’ve developed a copy and put us out of business. Instead, they panicked when our sales went exponential and accepted a licensing deal.”

Lena glanced over at the PR man. He was staring at his phone, probably checking the non-disclosure agreement she’d reluctantly agreed to an hour ago.

“Have you heard of Malik Denton?” asked Lefey.

“You mentioned him in your book,” said Lena.

“His hunch was an intelligent travel booking engine, trained by your social media accounts. It was like a high-end travel agent that anticipated your every need. We beta-tested it together – Vienna, Santiago, Lagos, beautiful times. They launched a month after we did.”

“I heard Booking.com picked it up from the administrators,” said Lena.

Lefey’s eyelids fluttered. “He lost everything because of a one-in-a-hundred-year event. If things had worked out differently, maybe you’d be interviewing Malik and I’d be the one lying under the Gatwick Express.”

#

She’d seen this room a thousand times before, a perfect ten-meter cube with softly glowing walls. In the centre of the space sat a small mesh chair. By the side of the chair, dressed in ceremonial green robes, stood the invigilator. Jeni sweated despite the air-conditioned chill. Her previous visits had all been simulations. This was the real thing.

A security guard flanking the doorway nodded a greeting. The invigilator beckoned her over. “Hello Jeni, sit down please.”

She took a deep breath and approached the chair. The device lay waiting on the seat, a glass and metal mask with two grey straps to hold it in place. This antique once had a name, a proper, technical one. But sixteen generations had known it as the Sorting Hat, a relic of a long-forgotten story.

The invigilator picked up the device and slipped it over Jeni’s head, securing the straps with well-practised hands. “Do you need instructions?” she asked.

Jeni shook her head. The elastic stretched and pulled as it arrested the bulky device’s momentum. “Have you ever seen anyone go all the way?” she asked. “To level forty-nine. And win?”

The invigilator offered a brief smile. “You’d be surprised.” She had a kind face.

An old-fashioned display screen appeared in front of Jeni’s eyes. It lit up with green text.

Baseline offer: Maintenance operator, class 3.

Level 1: Maintenance operator, class 4 (probability=50%). Colonial logistics assistant, class 5 (probability=50%).

Stick or twist?

The language was as ancient as the technology. “Twist,” said Jeni.

Level 1 result: Colonial logistics assistant, class 5.

Level 2: Refuse operative, class 1 (probability=51%). Service design technician, class 4 (probability=49%).

Stick or twist?

Jeni didn’t hesitate. “Twist.”

Over the next ten minutes, Jeni’s future seesawed between heaven and hell. She was a regional administrator, a technician on a garbage scow, a cleaner, then a pilot. But as she advanced through the levels, her results fell into the abyss. She was a miner, a soldier, then a colonist. She put it to the back of her mind and proceeded as planned: twist, twist, twist. 

Finally, at level forty-eight, with a two percent chance of success, her luck came through.

Level 48 result: Senior corporate director or junior minister, class A.

Level 49: Colonist/ soldier, lower spiral arm contested region. Average life expectancy 14 months (probability=99%). CEO or senior minister, class Alpha (probability=1%).

Stick or twist?

Jeni looked away from the screen; the invigilator winked as she caught her eye. A rasping grunt, almost a laugh, came from the guard behind her. “Save at zero-hour. Nice fortune, kid.”

It was tempting in so many ways. Money, status and time to enjoy it all – everyone knew the AIs made the big decisions. But there’d always be someone on the rung above her. It wasn’t what she was there for.

Jeni’s face hardened as she turned back to the virtual screen. “Oh, don’t be stu-” came a voice – she never found out who.

“Twist.”

#

Lefey rose to her feet, the PR minder hovering behind her. She walked to the door, but her hand froze on the handle.

“It won’t last, you know.”

“What won’t?” said Lena.

“Meritocracy,” said Lefey. She turned and took a step back into the room, the minder jumping smartly out of the way. “In a few years, there’ll be drugs to make us smart and focused, and all-knowing AIs whispering us answers. Rising to the top on individual merit will seem as ludicrous as kings appointed by God.”

“Yes, yes, wonderful – we can all finally be equal,” huffed the PR minder. Exasperation had introduced a west-country burr to his polished home counties accent. “The Minister is waiting, Ashley.”

“No way,” said Lena. “Someone will always want to be top-dog, and there’ll still be crummy jobs nobody wants to do.”

“So how will we pick life’s winners and losers?” asked Lefey. She took another step forward.

Lena didn’t answer – she didn’t have one to offer. Lefey frowned and turned to her minder. “What do you think, Adam?”

 A look of panic passed across the man’s face, like a schoolboy singled out for a maths question. He fumbled with his phone for a moment, then beamed a bright smile at his boss.

“Perhaps some sort of lottery.”

Ed Dearnley

Image: Viewing headset from Google images. Glass and metal with two grey straps to hold it in place.