Medusa: A Tiger by the Tail (12 page)

But we had sex a lot, which only reinforced everything.

On a different note, I found an electronics hobby club sponsored by the Guild, and actively joined it. It occurred to me that this was the best way I had to see the engineering philosophy behind Medusa’s society, and it would give me access to the tools to counter that technological threat when the time finally came.

That time was bothering me, though. Here it was three months along and I was really not ready to begin. I was still outside the establishment, still denied the tools and positions I needed, and even more cemented into the fairly pleasant daily regimen of low-grade Guild work. I had as much information and as much access to tools and technology as I needed to perform my duties, and I would get no more without some really dramatic or radical changes, changes I simply could not initiate.

Interestingly enough, TMS provided me with the kick in the rear I needed. We were returning from work one day, holding hands and talking about nothing much, coming across the street from the bus stop to the dorm, when a small vehicle pulled up across the street and its driver looked over at us. Now, individual vehicles were rare enough to cause attention and apprehension, and there was no mistaking the military green of the woman at the controls or that look of inner power on her face.

We tried to ignore her as best we could, but the TMS agent got out of the car and walked briskly and confidently toward us. When it became obvious that we were the object of her attention, we stopped. Ching gripped my hand so tightly I. thought it was going to be pulled off.

‘Tarin Bul?” the Monitor asked, although she knew who I was from the time she’d left her headquarters.

I nodded. “Yes?”

“This is a routine check. Ching Lu Kor, you will proceed to the dorm and go through your normal routine. He should be back in a few hours.”

“Shouldn’t I go with him?” Ching protested. “I mean, we’re
paired….”

Brave girl, I thought, but I said, “No, it’s all right, I’m sure this is just routine, Ching. You go on. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

She let go of my hand, hesitantly, and seemed to appeal to the Monitor with her eyes—but met only a steely blank response. The Monitor turned and walked back to the car and I followed, after kissing Ching lightly and giving her a reassuring pat and squeeze. But she was still standing there, looking frightened and upset, as the Monitor and I climbed into the car and sped smoothly out and away from the Guild sector.

It was the first time I’d been in an independent vehicle since coming to Medusa, and I paid a good deal of attention to how the officer drove the car. It seemed a simple affair, basically electric-powered and limited to city duty, with a small steering wheel and one-knob accelerator and brake. There was also an on-off switch, I noted, but no key or code pad. These TMS folks were pretty confident.

I knew I was supposed to be terrified and all that, but I couldn’t bring myself to look or act that way. The fact was, this was the first odd or unusual thing that had happened to me since I’d started work at the Guild and it sure broke the monotony. Besides, maybe the experience would yield some new information. One thing was sure—it was no routine check as the agent had said; I’d seen a lot of folks picked up for those routine checks, and they always took the pair or family as a group and never, never sent a personal car for them.

We went through and beyond downtown, to a small, low, black building on our right. We turned into a back alley on the side of the building, then made a sharp left and actually drove inside, gliding smoothly into a prepared stall in a garage with automatic hookups for recharging, energizing, and cold protection that came out and started work the moment we stopped and the “off” switch was flipped. The cold-weather protection was something I was well aware of; machinery wasn’t as tolerant of temperature as we Medusans, and special care had to be taken to make sure they worked correctly in our lovely climate.

“Follow me,” the Monitor instructed, and I did, walking with her to a nearby elevator, then into it, and up two floors. The doors slid back to reveal a somewhat familiar scene to me—squad rooms looked like squad rooms the galaxy over.

My monitor, who still hadn’t so much as given me a name and who wore only one stripe, checked in with the desk sergeant, then turned to me. “Your card.” She held out her hand, and I gave it to her, and she, in turn, gave it to the desk sergeant. Now I was stuck here until they wanted to let me leave.

We walked behind the desk and down a hall that led to a complex of offices, mostly with arcane names on the door. I became a little nervous when we stopped in front of a door marked subversive counterintelligence and walked in. That was too close to home. I felt a twinge as I considered that an enemy who could penetrate your deepest military headquarters might just get a leak as to an agent being dropped in their midst.

I followed my Monitor in, closing the door behind me—an old-fashioned one, I noted, with coded lock. The office was large and impressive, a big room with a desk in the center that was larger than could possibly be useful, a comfortable chair behind it, and just about nothing else. People stood before whoever belonged to this office, and probably at attention.

The chair turned and I saw that it held a tall, strong-looking woman, military-type, wearing not stripes but a major’s leaf. A big shot indeed. I was both more worried and suitably impressed.

The private approached the desk in good military fashion, came to attention, and saluted. “The citizen Tarin Bul, as ordered!” she snapped.

The major nodded casually and did not bother to return the salute. “That’ll be all, private. You may leave us.”

“As you wish!” the Monitor returned smartly, then did an about-face and walked past me to the door and was out. I was now alone with a big cheese in TMS circles here in Gray Basin, where, I understood, there was only one general and two colonels. That made this one a Department Chief—Grade 30 or better for sure.

I just stood there, well back from the desk, looking uncomfortable and curious. For a while the major just looked back at me. Finally she said, “Come here.”

I approached the desk, which still put some distance between us. Not much on the desk, either, I noted. This was a show office to impress not only folks like me but the lower-downs. The real work of this department was done elsewhere.

Again the stare. Finally she asked, “How do you like Medusa, Bul?”

I shrugged. “Better than a lot of places, I guess. I don’t have any complaints, except maybe that the job I’ve got’s a little boring.”

She nodded, not at all taken aback by my less than cringing attitude. Here was a pro, I realized from the start—but, well, so was I. Still, my demeanor was not easily overlooked. “You’re not nervous at being brought in here like this?”

“Should I be?” I countered. “Your people should know better than anybody that I haven’t been a bad boy.”

That brought a very slight smile to the corners of her mouth. That is probably true, but it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe we think your thoughts are impure.”

They are,” I assured her, “but they’re no threat to Medusa.”

She seemed a little taken aback by my statement, but didn’t let it get to her. Clearly she was used to dealing with a different sort of personality than mine. Well, who knew? But either I acted in character or correctly from her point of view—and I’d been on the other side of a desk like that too many times not to know exactly what that point of view was—or I triggered a greater suspicion. I was a new boy on the planet, no matter what, and I could not be expected to react like the natives.

She sat there a moment, looking me over thoughtfully. “You’re a bright boy. I almost think that you are not what you seem.”

That was uncomfortably close. She knew her business. “I haven’t been around long enough to fake much,” I retorted. “But I’ve gone through more cop interrogations and psych sessions than most old people have.”

She sighed. “Fourteen going on forty… Your situation is—unique, I admit. I know that politics played a part in your coming to us, but I suspect it was also the uniqueness of your situation. They didn’t know what to do with you.”

She paused, then asked, “What
are
we going to do you?”

“Is there any reason for not letting me continue to live my life?” I returned, a little surprised at this attitude. “Or isn’t it permitted to ask why I was brought here?”

“Ordinarily, no. And you weren’t brought here for anything you’ve done, Tarin Bul. In fact, you’ve been something of a model citizen. But sitting here, talking to you personally, I get this
feeling
about you. There is just something about you that smells … dangerous. Why do you smell dangerous, Tarin Bul?”

I shrugged and looked as innocent as can be. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Major. I
did
execute a man, but that was simple justice. Others that came in with me would willingly kill for no real reason.”

She shook her head negatively. “No, that’s not it. Something about you is … odd. I suspect that this is what was smelled by the Confederacy and their psychs as well. That is the reason they sent you to the Diamond, although, somehow, I feel we would all be better off if you weren’t Medusan.” She sighed again. “That is in the simple way of a warning, Bul. I’m going to be watching you extra carefully.”

“I assumed I was being watched extra carefully anyway, considering I’m a newcomer.”

She did not respond to that for a moment, but finally got to the point. “Have you been … contacted by anyone we should know about?”

The question was surprising. “Don’t
you
know?”

“Can the bullshit, Bul!” she snapped. “Answer the question!”

“I wasn’t being funny,” I assured her. “You’ve got to admit that’s a pretty weird question for Medusa, though.”

Her anger subsided as she realized that, of course, I was right. She had already admitted by her very question that this system wasn’t nearly as infallible as they claimed, nor as all-inclusive. It was a potentially damaging admission, and one I valued highly. “Just answer yes or no,” she said at last.

“No,” I responded honestly. “At least, not by anybody outside my normal life and job. What is this about, Major?”

“Some of the others who came here with you have been contacted by subversives,” she said in another, even more startling admission. “None of them are now in Gray Basin except you, but it’s my job to find out if these enemies of the people have spread to us. Logically, they would contact you if they were.”

“I’ve heard nothing about them or this,” I answered truthfully. I didn’t add that I could see the all-powerful TMS’s terrible embarrassment at anything like this. Subversives meant those opposed to Ypsir, TMS, and the system—natural enough, but in a society this regimented and monitored, allegedly perfect in its enforcement procedures, even a minor flaw would be a matter of great concern. Clearly somebody had found that flaw. On at least a verbal level somebody was operating against the Medusan government and had somehow circumvented their fancy computers, monitors, flags, and recorders. That meant more than a real genius at electronics—that meant an inside job. It meant that the leader of this thing had to be either a highly placed government official or somebody fairly high up in TMS.

“They call themselves simply the Opposition,” she told me. “We don’t think there are many of them, but the smaller and more cell-like their organization the more difficult it is to destroy. Since you have not been contacted, we must assume that they are not yet in Gray Basin.” She paused a moment for effect. As I said, a real pro. “How would you and your pair-mate like a promotion, Bul?”

Surprise followed surprise, and I could hardly repress my excitement. At last some room to move. I could almost guess what was coming next. “You know we would,” I told her. “And what’s the price?”

Again that faint smile. “The price could be very high indeed, Bul. Two of those who came in with you are dead now. One joined them but was not very clever. The other refused them—and was executed by them, we believe. A third joined, slipped, and tried to bluff things out with us. She was given to our psychs. She had a very strong mind and will and fought to the bitter end. Still, we got some information from her, but at the cost of her own mind. She’s now a Goodtime Girl for her city government. She smiles a lot and does whatever she’s told—she would jump off a building or behead herself if asked—but she doesn’t exactly
think
any more.”

I’m afraid the sudden hoarseness in my voice wasn’t at all feigned. Frankly, I could stand death. It was a part of the risk my profession always ran, and one that all of us accepted. I also had no real fear of routine psych probes or even physical torture. I was trained and propped by the best for that. But I have to admit that a total assault on my mind, enough to break it,
-was
possible. So although they would still get no information from such an effort, they could, in fact, destroy me mentally. It was always a possibility, one that revolted me.

“Do you want to become a Goodtime Girl, Bul?” she asked, sensing my discomfort.

“No. Of course not,” I told her, my voice weak.

“Well, here is what we are going to do. Two of those people were in the city of Rochande, more than sixteen hundred kilometers southwest of here. It so happens we run three trains between Gray Basin and Rochande, two of which are freights. It is the passenger-freight combination train that interests us, since we have some information that at least one contact was made on that train. We intend to assign you to that train, on a regular basis, as a normal promotion. Since the trip, with preparation and cleanup, takes a full shift, you will have two residences, one here and one there, and work different directions on alternate days. We believe that, sooner or later, either on the train or at Rochande, you will be contacted.”

It figured. Bait. But the actual routine sounded like fun, and it would give me the first opening in my own little campaign. “And when—if—I’m contacted?”