Medusa: A Tiger by the Tail

by Jack L. Chalker

  The easiest way to think of the society, I reflected, was as if everybody—every man, woman, and child—were in the military, attached to a mission section. Within that section were most of the grades, with grade reflecting rank and, therefore, power. The state, or your section of it, provided common meal facilities, food, clothing, and shelter, and also made available the amenities that could be bought with the money you made. The pay seemed relatively low until you remembered that all the basics were taken care of and anything you earned could be spent on luxuries.

  There were three shifts a day, each running eight hours, with the hours adjusted for the differences from Confederacy norm. The work week was six days, with the seventh off, but different industries took different days off so there was no universal off day. To make sure all worked well and smoothly, there was the Monitor Service.

  I suspected it was this Monitor Service idea that got Talant Ypsir his one-way ticket from the Confederacy to the Diamond. Though I doubt if it would work on a thousand worlds spread over a quarter of a galaxy, the system worked fine, it seemed, on Medusa, though none of us liked it, least of all me.

  Every single room in every single city and town was monitored. Not just the rooms, but the streets, alleyways, buses, you name it. Just about every single thing anyone said or did was monitored and recorded by a master computer or, really, the huge computer bank that was actually in orbit around the planet. Whoever wrote the computer program should be tortured to death.

  Now, obviously, not even the galaxy’s greatest computer could really analyze all that data, and this was where Ypsir was diabolically clever. The Monitor Service, a sort of police force that ran this system and was generally just called TMS, programmed the computers to look for certain things—phrases, actions, who except for them knew what?—that would cause a computer to “flag” you. Then a human TMS agent would sit down and with the computer’s aid review anything about you he or she wanted, then haul you in to see why you were acting so funny or being so subversive. Nobody knew what the flag codes were, and a certain amount of totally random harassment was maintained by TMS just so the bright guys couldn’t figure them out.

  The system, as Kabaye pointed out proudly, did, in fact, work. Productivity was extremely high, absenteeism and shirking extremely low. Crime was almost nonexistent, except for the rare crime of passion which the computer couldn’t flag in time to stop. But even if you managed to commit it, as soon as the crime was discovered the TMS could call up the whole scene and see exactly what was what.

  Violators were tried in secret by TMS courts, extremely quickly it seemed, and given punishment ranging from demotion to being handed over to the psychs—many of whom were Confederacy crooks and sadists sentenced here themselves—for whatever they felt like doing to your mind. The ultimate punishment, for treason, was what was known as Ultimate Demotion—you were snipped off on a very unpleasant one-way trip to the mines of Momrath’s moons.

  It was an ugly system, and extremely difficult to fight or circumvent unless you knew exactly where the monitor devices were and what would and would not constitute a flag. That made it a near-impossible challenge, particularly for a kid whose background would suggest that he not be allowed too near any world leaders. In a sense, though, I liked it. Not only was this a real challenge, perhaps my supreme challenge; but Medusa was, after all, my type of world—technologically oriented and dependent on that technology. If I could find a way, too, the system would actually help. TMS, and, therefore, Talant Ypsir, must be pretty damn confident and secure.

  But the more complex the challenge, the more I would have to know, and learn. This would not be easy by any means, and no mistakes would be tolerated by the system. It would take some time, perhaps a very long time, before I could confidently know-enough to act.

  After Kabaye’s visit conversation was muted and sullen, to say the least. There were a number of attempts to figure out where the monitors were in the various rooms, but none of us found one that night.

  Still, the third day’s lessons proved to be pretty instructive as, one by one, even our most private whispers of the day before were repeated back to us by our hosts. Here was an effective demonstration of how efficient the fixed system really was—it selectively picked up one whisper even when masked by other whispers as well as fairly loud sounds. I was most interested in seeing pictures to check the angle and, therefore, locate the monitors; but we were shown none. We reached a general consensus that we were in one hell of a planetary jail cell, but there was nothing, at least for now, that any of us could do about it.

  On the fourth day, we were tested and interviewed. Various officious-looking clerks wearing the same kind of military garb as Gorn and Sugra subjected us individually to a battery of tests that took much of the day. They then conducted general interviews.

  At the end of the whole thing, each of us was taken into a small room we hadn’t known about for a final interview.

  She said her name was Dr. Crouda, and I knew immediately by her whites and her medical insignia that she had to be a psych. That really didn’t bother me—not only was I trained and fortified against the general run of psych tricks, but I was in some ways the creation of the best psychs in the Confederacy. What I needed, though, was a good performance that would cement my cover and do me the most good overall.

  She motioned me to a chair, sat back behind a small desk, and looked over my files for a moment. “You are Tarin Bul?”

  I shuffled with kid fidgets in my seat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you are fourteen?”

  I nodded. “A few months ago. I’m not too sure of the time. It’s been a real long time since I could remember anything but prisons and psychs—beg pardon, ma’am.”

  She nodded and couldn’t suppress a slight smile. “I understand perfectly. Did you know that as far as we can tell you are the youngest person ever sent to the Warden Diamond.”

  “I sorta guessed that,” I answered truthfully.

  “Your education and training and your genetic inclinations are toward administrative work, but you’re hardly ready at your age. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Again I could only nod. “I understand.” Right now, in the normal course of things, Tarin Bul would still be in school.

  She sighed and looked over her reports. Real written files, I noted. How novel. “Now, your tests show a true inclination for math and a strong grasp of computer principles and operations. Have you given any thought to what you’d like to be?”

  I thought a moment, choosing the best tack. Finally I settled on the one I thought most in character. “Lord of the Diamond,” I told her.

  Again the smile. “Well, I understand that. But, realistically, considering your abbreviated education and your likes and dislikes—is there anything you really find yourself drawn to?”

  I thought a moment. “Yes, ma’am. Freighter pilot.” That wasn’t much of a risk, since it was right in character—but, oh how I wished I really were a freighter pilot! Money, mobility, status, and a lot more.

  “That’s not unreasonable,” she said, thinking it over, “but you are a long way from the age at which you could even enter pilot training.” She paused and threw me the typical psych curve. “Have you ever had any sexual experiences either with girls or with boys?”

  I acted shocked. “No, ma’am!”

  “What do you think of girls?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, they’re okay.”

  She nodded to herself and scribbled something, then asked, “How do you feel about being here? Being sent here, I mean?”

  Again I shrugged. “Beats bein’ dead, I guess. I haven’t seen enough of this world to tell otherwise.”

  Again the nod and the scribble. “I think we have enough for now—Tarin, isn’t it? You may go. Tomorrow someone will be in to talk to you, and then we’ll know where you’re going.”

  For now that sounded fair enough. I left.

  I hadn’t really had any problems with that battery th
ey threw at me earlier. I had seen such tests before and understood exactly how they were weighted and scored. I had skewed my aptitudes upward in certain specific areas, like electronics and mechanics, as well as computers, while keeping the Tarin Bul background as consistent with what would be expected of my breeding and training. I could see and understand their problem with me, though. The fact was, I was too old to fit directly into their fixed planetary training system and too young to go to work properly. The best I could do was present myself as some sort of smart-ass genius and hope for the best.

  On the fourth day my skin turned an orange-brown, as did that of four of the others. In a sense the change excited me, since I knew now for the first time that something major really was happening inside me; but it gave me a chilling feeling as well.

  Gorn and Sugra were obviously pleased by the development, and the morning was spent with the five of us undergoing a few physical tests. The first one was simple and basic. I was dressed only in the flimsy hospital gown, when they took me out into that cold corridor and down to the first level of the building. For a while I thought they were pulling some kind of fast one—I felt a chill when the door opened and we stepped out, but the chill was rapidly replaced with a feeling of growing warmth and comfort, until I felt perfectly normal once again.

  I was not normal, though, which I realized just by looking at the backs of my hands. The burnt orange quickly faded out, replaced by a more neutral grayish coloration. And yet, I felt normal—felt just fine, thank you, and as human as ever.

  The first level was now staffed with a receptionist and a few people moved in and out; but the place was by no means crowded. We were the object of a few stares, but little else.

  Satisfied that we felt all right, Gorn led the five of us outside into the street. Again there was that slightly chilling feeling, followed by a comforting warmth, and that was that. I felt warm as toast and perfectly comfortable despite the fact I was barefoot and wearing nothing more than a glorified bedsheet. In a sense, the test was reassuring, since some of the fear of the unknown and uncontrollable vanished with the realization that I really didn’t feel unusual or extraordinary or different.

  Satisfied with our progress, they led us back to our quarters. When I entered, I felt a really strong blast of heat, which faded as quickly as had the chill, leaving me feeling pretty much as I had in the street outside. Now at least I felt like a Medusan. I still wished they would tell us everything about this Warden transformation—I was quite sure they were withholding a lot of information on the theory that what you didn’t know you couldn’t use—but there was no way to approach the problem directly. I’d have to wait and learn in the streets, or by accident, dammit.

  That afternoon those of us who had “acclimated”—as they called it—were summoned, one by one, into the small office. When my turn came I walked in, expecting another psych, but found instead a man I’d never seen before.

  “Tarin Bul? I am Staff Supervisor Trin of the Transport Workers Guild. I’m told you have ambitions to be a pilot.”

  My emotions soared. “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, that’s possible. Your literacy level is off the scale, your mathematical level nearly that, and you have a command of computer theory far beyond any expectations. But your education is still not really advanced, and you’ll need some more height and a couple of years of age before we can enroll you in pilot’s school, if we do. However, you have been assigned to the Guild. Now, don’t get your hopes up. You’re coming in rather awkwardly—considering your age and experience, or lack of it. You don’t quite fit. Nor do your tests really indicate a direction or focus. That means you’re in the right Guild for your ambitions, but at the lowest level. We can’t put you in school—you’re too old for the integrated program and too young for advanced training. Therefore, it has been decided that you will be given a position—we call them slots—at the lowest level of the Guild, as well as administered self-study computer courses in a number of areas to allow you some preparation for the future.”

  I nodded seriously. The rating wasn’t as good as it could have been, but it was more than enough to start.

  “The lowest levels require hard, unpleasant, boring work,” he warned. “But you will be observed and, if you do well both at work and in your courses, you will be advanced accordingly. Whether you are advanced to pilot or driver training, or to some other area, will depend on your work habits, diligence, your supervisor’s ratings, and how well you integrate yourself into our system. Understand?”

  “Ah, yes, sir. Um … how old do you have to be to enter pilot’s school?”

  He smiled. “The minimum age is sixteen, the average age eighteen. The program is “one year, then there’s an additional year of in-service apprentice work before you can be considered for full licensing.”

  I nodded. Still, while trying to convince the man that I was more than eager to work my way up and please everybody for the next two years, the back of my mind said “two years” in a far different tone. Two years was a long, long time….

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Workin’ on the Railroad

  The next day I was given a small card that bore a number and a symbol on the front and had a series of dots of some magnetic material on the back. The symbol was a bolt of lightning flanked by two solid black lines—rails, it seemed. The symbol of the Transportation Guild. True to their word at the initial briefing, I also received a set of tailored uniforms in my size. They were in the satiny red color of the Guild and bore the same symbol on the pocket. A small suitcase contained some basic toiletries, including, I found, a razor, something I wouldn’t need for a while. Also included was a pair of red rubber-soled shoes, just to improve footing on the smooth floors and sidewalks of the city.

  The card contained my name, new address, Guild, work assignment, and various control numbers. It was even my bankbook. The Central Bank of Gray Basin held an account in my name. Every time I wanted to pay for something I had to stick my card in the appropriate slot and the amount would automatically be deducted from my account. I was impressed. Pretty much like home, although my bank stake was only a hundred units.

  The basic currency was the unit—work unit, I assumed—which was broken into a hundred smaller divisions called bits. A pretty standard decimal system. Things must be fairly cheap.

  Beyond that I received some insincere “good lucks” from Gorn and Sugra and some far more sincere ones from my eight comrades, now all turned, or acclimated, to the Warden organism. I picked up a bus-route map of the city that told me how to get to where I had to be, and that was it. Clutching my small overnight case, I was out the door and on the streets of the big city.

  Once temperature was no longer a problem, the city seemed much like those domed cities I’d been in on several other worlds. Factories and such were easy to spot by their design, but mostly because their exhaust vents went straight up to the illuminated ceiling and on through it. With temperatures fairly well equalized inside and out, there was no problem with frost, although occasional ice crystals floated in the air. Curiously, my breath did not show in the cold. I wondered just what the hell that bug had made us into, since I was pretty sure I was still a warm-blooded mammal.

  The buses were pretty easy to find, and in their automated style worked very well. The locals seemed to be guided by single magnetic strips buried within the street paving itself and ran on rubberized tires—synthetic, of course. They had sensors at the clearly marked and color-coded bus stops and would stop if anyone was within the painted stop zones. The door was something of a turnstile, unlocking when you stuck your card in the side slot and passing you through without giving any opportunity for a second person to sneak by—an interesting indication to me that this place wasn’t as crime-free and rock honest as had been made out. I suspected a lot of petty crimes were attempted even by ordinarily honest folk. It was just about the only way you had to feel like you were getting back at the system.

  The bus was not only c
omfortable, it had a handy map above the windshield that illuminated where it was on its route and where the transfer points were. With that and my own set of directions I had no trouble crossing town, changing twice and winding up exactly where I was supposed to be. There was something, certainly, to be said for Medusan efficiency.

  During the ride I just sat back and studied the city and the people. They looked a rather ordinary lot, all dressed in these identical uniforms, color- and badge-coded as to guild and grade. It took no real detective work to figure out that the militarylike rank and uniforms of Gorn and Sugra were those of the dreaded TMS, who certainly had to socialize only among their own. Whenever a green fatigue uniform was visible, you could see everybody else pretending to ignore it but shying away fast. And TMS people, of course, radiated arrogant disdain for the masses and joy in knowing they were powerful and feared. The cops were certainly the enemy here, and for good reason. I had never seen a system with police force more in control of things. Idly I wondered how you entered TMS—and who were they afraid of?

  Around the city’s core, with its office buildings and cooperative shops and markets and central terminal, the residential and manufacturing areas were arranged in something of a pie-wedge design. The wedges seemed to alternate between heavy industry and residential units, all of which were four-story affairs composed of what looked like identical apartments. I later learned this was not the case, however. Family units had one room per family member over twelve, so some were fairly large suites; and the top grades had pretty swanky suites just for themselves.

  My own destination was T-26, a unit that looked much like all the others. I punched the stop button and jumped off as the building number went past the window, which meant I had to backtrack a block. I hesitated only a moment, then walked up and entered the main entrance.