Character Interview: Iari Lenerian
The admissions committee settled into their cushions and pulled up files for the next round of interviews. The youngest sipped her spiced coffee as she straightened the stack of digital papers in her lap.
"Iari Lenerian," the oldest read off a list. "Twenty-two, male, homeworld RG-Gamel-6-WH." A hint of a frown clouded his eyebrows. "Undergraduate in chemistry from Lenar Memorial University."
"It's an accredited school," the youngest said.
"I know, I know." He scrolled through the record. "Pretty rural, though. Gamel sector's out in the Fringe, isn't it? His travel expenses would be almost as much as tuition."
"He has perfect grades. And his personal statement was quite touching."
The oldest glanced up at her with skepticism. The middle interviewer pulled white hair back into a ponytail, her own pages haphazardly cast around the floor in front of her seat. "You have such a soft spot for the underdog candidates. His sector doesn't qualify for scholarship, you know."
The youngest frowned at the other two. "His expenses are his concern. We're here to decide if he's qualified for admission or not."
"Let's see, then." The oldest waved toward the screen in the wall. "Send the call."
The connection idled for a minute as the transmission made its way across half a galaxy. The broad screen went dark, flickered into a distorted image, and lurched through a few still frames before settling into solid feed. The applicant sat in a dark room, lit by a desk light and his own screen. A window behind him was as black as his Fringer hair. What time was it on his planet?
"Mister Lenerian," the oldest greeted. "Thank you for your interest in attending Acathor Medical College."
"Thank you for giving me the chance to interview," the boy said, enunciation clear but distinctly accented.
"What made you choose us over a school closer to home?"
Without hesitation, "You're the best."
"Maintaining that status," the middle one said, "necessitates an extremely careful selection process. Ten thousand applicants for five hundred seats. What separates you from the other ten thousand?"
The applicant pursed his lips. "I know the value of what you're offering. I've worked every minute of every day to get here."
The oldest leaned forward, tapping his fingers together. "That's a given, Mister Lenerian. No one who attends AMC can say anything less. For the past twenty-five years, the Interstellar Award for Outstanding Medicine has gone to one of our graduates. The Thompson Research Award for the past ten. Six years running now, we've--"
"Received the Brooke Award for Surgical Excellence, I know. Maybe I didn't phrase that quite right. I'm sure the other ten thousand are just as qualified, just as dedicated. But they don't have as far to fall."
"Why should that have any bearing on our consideration?"
"I live in the Fringe. We're poor and desperate and mediocre most of the time. Suzy Central will have grown up in a family where excellence is expected--gone to a school where every child plans on a doctorate. Lived in a city with ten museums in walking distance and the time and money to get annual passes to all of them. Tell me that's not three-quarters of your candidates."
"This is a Central college," the middle one said. "Naturally a majority of applicants are from Central worlds. Most Fringers would prefer somewhere a little more feasible."
"That's why it matters." The candidate leaned in, earnest. "I've had to fight to get myself considered every step of the way. I worked to put myself through undergrad, and got perfect grades while doing it. My childhood friends are laborers in metal mines and shipyards, and they were happy to survive a basic diploma. This isn't a planet that sends people to medical school." His brown eyes glinted in the light from his video screen. "I'm the only applicant from Wharadon you've ever had. I'll work ten times harder than anyone else you've accepted. I'll be the top of my class--not in spite of my upbringing, but because of it--and I want you to let me come to Acathor and prove it."
The youngest scrolled through the credentials and personal statement yet again. His passion had come through in his writing, but his conviction in person was even more difficult to ignore. She was glad she'd pulled his name for her pile. "Tell me, Mister Lenerian, why do you want to be a doctor in the first place?"
"To save lives, why else?" He folded his hands together and stared down at them, but his voice was confident. "Those laborers in the metal mines and the shipyards--I'm going to be there for them. If it's not through AMC, it'll be some other way. Thank you for the opportunity you've given me to get this far. Now give me the chance to show you how much more I can do."
"Iari Lenerian," the oldest read off a list. "Twenty-two, male, homeworld RG-Gamel-6-WH." A hint of a frown clouded his eyebrows. "Undergraduate in chemistry from Lenar Memorial University."
"It's an accredited school," the youngest said.
"I know, I know." He scrolled through the record. "Pretty rural, though. Gamel sector's out in the Fringe, isn't it? His travel expenses would be almost as much as tuition."
"He has perfect grades. And his personal statement was quite touching."
The oldest glanced up at her with skepticism. The middle interviewer pulled white hair back into a ponytail, her own pages haphazardly cast around the floor in front of her seat. "You have such a soft spot for the underdog candidates. His sector doesn't qualify for scholarship, you know."
The youngest frowned at the other two. "His expenses are his concern. We're here to decide if he's qualified for admission or not."
"Let's see, then." The oldest waved toward the screen in the wall. "Send the call."
The connection idled for a minute as the transmission made its way across half a galaxy. The broad screen went dark, flickered into a distorted image, and lurched through a few still frames before settling into solid feed. The applicant sat in a dark room, lit by a desk light and his own screen. A window behind him was as black as his Fringer hair. What time was it on his planet?
"Mister Lenerian," the oldest greeted. "Thank you for your interest in attending Acathor Medical College."
"Thank you for giving me the chance to interview," the boy said, enunciation clear but distinctly accented.
"What made you choose us over a school closer to home?"
Without hesitation, "You're the best."
"Maintaining that status," the middle one said, "necessitates an extremely careful selection process. Ten thousand applicants for five hundred seats. What separates you from the other ten thousand?"
The applicant pursed his lips. "I know the value of what you're offering. I've worked every minute of every day to get here."
The oldest leaned forward, tapping his fingers together. "That's a given, Mister Lenerian. No one who attends AMC can say anything less. For the past twenty-five years, the Interstellar Award for Outstanding Medicine has gone to one of our graduates. The Thompson Research Award for the past ten. Six years running now, we've--"
"Received the Brooke Award for Surgical Excellence, I know. Maybe I didn't phrase that quite right. I'm sure the other ten thousand are just as qualified, just as dedicated. But they don't have as far to fall."
"Why should that have any bearing on our consideration?"
"I live in the Fringe. We're poor and desperate and mediocre most of the time. Suzy Central will have grown up in a family where excellence is expected--gone to a school where every child plans on a doctorate. Lived in a city with ten museums in walking distance and the time and money to get annual passes to all of them. Tell me that's not three-quarters of your candidates."
"This is a Central college," the middle one said. "Naturally a majority of applicants are from Central worlds. Most Fringers would prefer somewhere a little more feasible."
"That's why it matters." The candidate leaned in, earnest. "I've had to fight to get myself considered every step of the way. I worked to put myself through undergrad, and got perfect grades while doing it. My childhood friends are laborers in metal mines and shipyards, and they were happy to survive a basic diploma. This isn't a planet that sends people to medical school." His brown eyes glinted in the light from his video screen. "I'm the only applicant from Wharadon you've ever had. I'll work ten times harder than anyone else you've accepted. I'll be the top of my class--not in spite of my upbringing, but because of it--and I want you to let me come to Acathor and prove it."
The youngest scrolled through the credentials and personal statement yet again. His passion had come through in his writing, but his conviction in person was even more difficult to ignore. She was glad she'd pulled his name for her pile. "Tell me, Mister Lenerian, why do you want to be a doctor in the first place?"
"To save lives, why else?" He folded his hands together and stared down at them, but his voice was confident. "Those laborers in the metal mines and the shipyards--I'm going to be there for them. If it's not through AMC, it'll be some other way. Thank you for the opportunity you've given me to get this far. Now give me the chance to show you how much more I can do."
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