Medusa: A Tiger by the Tail

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.

The place was like a dormitory. The ground floor had a lobby with computer screens giving general information, including schedule changes and even sports scores. A pair of double doors led to a common dining hall. Apparently the residents of the building ate here, cafeteria-style, although the food was certainly prepared elsewhere. There wasn’t much room for a kitchen.

Doors on either side led to communal stores. There was a small pharmacy, a tailor, a shoe shop, and the like. Apparently they were only open one hour on each side of each shift change. They also couldn’t be very large, I told myself, as it wouldn’t be efficient to have actual stores in each building unit. Each was staffed by one clerk, who simply took in what you had—shoes to be fixed, for example, or an order for toiletries and such—then sent them to a central store which had the shoes fixed or filled the order. What you wanted was ready when you came back from a shift. Not a bad system. If it wasn’t for TMS I might actually be impressed by this place, I told myself.

There was a small elevator cage at each end of the hall, too, I noticed, so I would not have to climb the stairs.

My instructions said I was to report first to T-26, Room 404—which, I assumed, was on the fourth floor—and get settled. I would be contacted there and told where to go and what to do next.

Room 404 was where it should logically have been. Since there was no key, only a card slot, I inserted my card and the door slid open.

It was a small room, about five meters by four, but it had been sensibly laid out by somebody who’d obviously done hotel work. The two beds looked comfortable and standard—after the cell and then those barracks cots they looked wonderful—and there were two reasonably spacious closets, plenty of drawers along the wall opposite the beds, and a CRT terminal that was unfamiliar in design but pretty easy to figure out.

A side door led to a toilet, shower, and basin, which, I saw, we shared with the room next to us. I say “we” simply because when I looked in the closets, then in the drawers, somebody’s stuff was already in them. The owner didn’t appear to be much bigger than I from the size of the clothes, but I’d have to wait and see.

Although the room monitors were cleverly concealed to blend in with the surroundings, they weren’t hard to locate. The one in the bathroom was in the center of the overhead light, and the one in the main room was almost certainly integrated into the centrally located smoke and fire detector. I wondered idly if they had the closets covered. Though the idea seemed pretty ridiculous they probably did. Ypsir and his TMS apparently had that kind of mind.

I checked the computer terminal for messages but there were none apparent. I didn’t yet have the codes needed to call up the less routine stuff. Since I had received no instructions beyond coming here and waiting, I put my stuff away in an empty drawer and stowed the overnight bag in one of the closets, then went back to the terminal and gave it a good going-over. It was extremely primitive by my standards, but did have the basics, both keyboard and voxcoder for two-way communication. The thing was a combination terminal and telephone, possibly even a picturephone. Considering the obvious technical limitations the Confederacy imposed on the Warden Diamond, this really was a slick piece of home-grown work. After deciding I didn’t have the proper tools to disassemble the frame and see what really made the machine tick, I abandoned it for the time being, walked over to the bed, leaned back, and relaxed in the nice, downy softness. I promptly fell asleep.

I was awakened perhaps two hours later by the sound of the door whooshing back to admit someone. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor and all that, I remained motionless, curious to see who it might be. My eyes opened wide and I sat straight up when I saw the newcomer. I really hadn’t been prepared for this.

“Oh, hello!” she said, spotting me. “You must be Tarin Bul.”

The girl was very young—I couldn’t really tell how young—quite small and slightly built, hair cropped as short as my own. I was still sitting up in bed, staring, mouth agape, trying to adjust to the fact that she was a she, when she started removing her uniform.

“Hey!” I cried out, feeling very awkward indeed. I was no prude, but societies have rules and the one I came from wasn’t quite this casual.

She stopped, a little puzzled. “What’s the matter?” And she meant it.

“Um—you’re taking off your clothes in front of a perfect stranger.”

The idea struck her as funny. “Oh, you’re supposed to take yours off, too. The Monitor should have told you. I guess somebody’s asleep at the switch today.” She finished removing the last of her clothing, which she folded into a small ball, then opened a drawer, from which she removed a plastic bag, stuffing in the clothes. “Below Supervisor grade it’s not permitted to wear uniforms in your home dorm. Don’t you know that?”

1 shook my head slowly, trying to decide if I was being put on. My wits returning, I realized that what she was telling me made perfect sense from the TMS viewpoint. You couldn’t carry in anything without taking it out of your clothing first, and being totally nude was the ultimate invasion of privacy, somehow. Now, I’d gone nude in mixed company many times, usually on plush resort worlds with seaside villas, and never thought anything of it. But this was a whole different kind of experience, and it took some getting used to.

She held out the bag. “Come on—before the Monitor sees you. Off and in the bag.”

I sighed and decided that it wouldn’t be in character if I caved in too easily. “But—you’re a girl!” I was suddenly very cautious, mentally. The mere fact that I hadn’t been called on such a rule indicated to me that they were observing my behavior and how I acclimated socially. The fact that I was fourteen was some protection, but it wasn’t total. I had to assume that any government capable of putting a superhuman robot in the most secret rooms of Military Systems Command could easily know about the Merton Process and deduce the truth given half a chance. She stood up straight and shook her head at me in wonder. “Are all people Outside so shy and upset by so simple a thing?”

Her question told me two facts straight off, if she was indeed what she seemed. First, she was a native of this world, and, second, I was the first person from “Outside”—that is, outside the Warden Diamond, and maybe even outside of Medusa—she’d ever met. Ordinarily such knowledge would give me some advantage and leeway in slips, but I couldn’t assume that whoever was monitoring me was as inexperienced or naive.

I sighed, gave in, and removed my clothes, tossing them into the common bag. She tied the bag off and left it on the floor. “I’m Ching Lu Kor,” she introduced herself. “Ah—you are Tarin Bul?”

I nodded nervously. “Uh huh.”

She looked me over mock-critically. “You’re not so bad. I always heard people Outside were all soft and flabby, but you look pretty good.”

I shuffled nervously, creating my proper persona as I went. “Uh—I haven’t had a lot of exercise in a while, but I made do.”

She sat down on the corner of the bed opposite mine.

“What’d you do to get sent here? Or shouldn’t I ask that?”

I shrugged and sat back on my bed. “I executed the murderer of my father,” I told her. “Nobody else would.”

She frowned and appeared to be a little taken aback by that. Clearly a crime of that magnitude was hard for someone brought up in a totalitarian world like Medusa to fathom. But clearly she understood the implications of the act, even if it seemed impossible to her. She even seemed impressed. A romantic, I decided.

“Are you hungry?” she asked suddenly, getting away from the subject. “I’m starved—I’ve just come off shift. You’re lucky—no work until 1600 tomorrow.” She jumped up from the bed. “Come on. We have to drop off the laundry anyway. Then you can tell me all about Outside, and I can tell you all about here.”