Medusa: A Tiger by the Tail

CHAPTER THREE Orientation

The couple who had met us looked lean, tough, and mean. They radiated an arrogant sort of cold, businesslike power. Both were dressed in fatigue-green uniforms and wore rubber-soled black shoes, but the uniforms were rather light and did not seem to offer much protection against the cold. In fact, these two were dressed in such a way that you’d swear the ambient temperature in the terminal was not below freezing but rather somewhere in the temperate range. Their uniforms bore sewn insignia of rank—if they followed the usual standard here, the man was a sergeant, the woman a corporal—and an odd-looking, snakelike insignia on their right pockets, but that was it.

We all lined up, turned, and looked at the couple, who stared back at us as if we were some kind of disgusting specimens for a lab dissection. I took an instant dislike to them both.

“I’m Sergeant Gorn,” the man said. With his clipped, officious voice he sounded like every sergeant I’d ever heard. “This is Corporal Sugra. We are orientation leaders and medical technicians for your group. I think you are as dressed as we can manage. Don’t worry if you have size problems—everyone does. When you become more acclimated to Medusa, you will be issued a full set of tailored clothing. First we must transfer you to the orientation center, so follow me and we will board a bus just outside.” With that he started walking and, after a moment’s hesitation, we all followed. The corporal brought up the rear.

The bus was of an odd magnetic-drive design, with hard, molded seats, two strings of internal lights, and not much else. There was no operator and, as we quickly discovered, no heat. It was built like a fort, though, so we would be sheltered from the noisy wind and thickly blowing snow if not from the biting cold. As soon as the last of us boarded, the corporal took a card out of one of her pockets and stuck it in a slot in the front panel of the bus. The doors closed with a whoosh and we were off rather smoothly and quickly, emerging from the tunnel into Medusa proper.

The spaceport was located some distance from the town. We managed to run out of the blizzard after some ten or fifteen minutes and gained a little visibility of a world that was still totally snow-covered. I could see high mountains off in the distance, grim and foreboding. There was no sign of life out there, though—I had no idea how much snow was there, but it was more than I’d ever seen outside of a polar ice cap.

The bus, however, was an impressive vehicle, smooth and sturdy, that apparently was guided along some sort of under-snow tracking system. The system made sense, for no matter how high the snow piled up the bus would glide just above it.

We slowed, suddenly, but without any jerking, and approached a large building that loomed up out of the sea of white. We stopped, waited, then started up again, stopped again, waited, then glided on, the tracking system now clearly visible ahead.

Sgt. Gorn picked up the microphone. “We are entering the west gate of the city of Gray Basin,” he informed us. “Because of the unpleasant weather around here, much of the city is built underground—in fact, under the permafrost. The two stops we made were to clear force fields, without which the gates would be open to wild animals and other unpleasant creatures that do, in fact, roam that landscape you have seen.

We took another turn, then came to a complicated track-switching area. The bus stopped, then cautiously proceeded once again as a series of lights changed on all the tracks; the bus eased onto one of them. We moved along another two or three minutes at a slow but steady speed, then emerged from the tunnel and into the city of Gray Basin proper, which was as modern-looking as the bus. It seemed to go on forever.

“The city is not in a cavern,” Gorn informed us, “but is built in the same manner as are the domed cities on some of the most hostile frontier worlds. In fact, it’s something of a domed city upside down, in that we built the city and then roofed it over. Most Medusan cities not on or near the equator are built like this. Gray Basin has a population of seventeen thousand and is the commercial center of the north.”

The map in my head showed me pretty much where I was. The eastern continental land mass, it seemed, and at about 38° north latitude. On most worlds this would be a fairly pleasant climate; here, it was tundra.

Despite my warm clothing, the cold was beginning to get to me. I had spent the last several weeks in perfect climate control, and my body was not used to this kind of extreme. Even in the bus, where things should be fairly stable in temperature, it was still damned cold.

We wound through streets past neat-looking modular apartment buildings and what must have been office buildings and shops, finally pulling up at a blocky, monolithic four-story building made out of some blackish stone. The doors hissed open.

“Please follow us into the building,” Gorn said. Despite the “please,” it still sounded like the command it was. “Do not hold back. You will have to climb two flights of staffs. Do not get lost.”

We followed the same route-step as before, entering the building and walking down a wide corridor with offices and other corridors branching off to the right and left of us. We then reached a stairway and climbed it, keeping up with Gorn as best we could. I think most of us were a bit surprised to be winded by a mere two-story climb, our sedentary imprisonment notwithstanding. Not only were we all out of condition, but the slightly heavier gravity was telling.

The blast of warm air when we entered the first room on the third floor was as unexpected as it was tremendously welcome. Despite my clothing, I frankly hadn’t realized how terribly cold I was until the pain that the heat generated hit me. It took a few minutes before I could really think of anything else and look around.

The first room, the heated one, was fairly large and furnished in a utilitarian manner, with long, hard folding tables and collapsible chairs and not much else. There were no windows, a fact our hosts were quick to explain.

“Just take seats anywhere and get accustomed to the temperature change,” Gorn told us. “This room and the three adjoining rooms have been raised to 21° for your initial comfort. These are the only directly heated rooms, so stay within them at all times. We chose this area to heat because, with no windows or other outside vents, it is the most efficient system.” He walked over to a nearby door. “If you’ll come in here, 111 show you the rest of the place.”

We followed—slowly, still not recovered completely from exposure—and found that the second room was a large barrackslike area with eight double bunks, four on each side of the hall. The mattresses appeared to be paper-thin and none too comfortable, but I’d seen worse. The place was well-maintained, although obviously seldom used. Beyond was a third large room, with a large common shower and three open standard toilets, plus four small sinks with mirrors. Again it looked seldom-used, but serviceable.

We followed Sgt. Corn back to the “lounge” area and took seats. As yet nobody had removed his thermal clothing and I had no inclination to do so myself. I felt as if I would never be warm again.

It was Cpl. Sugra’s turn at us. She looked like a lot of women cops I’ve met in my work—not unattractive, but hard, cold, and worldly; her voice matched. For the first time I could look at her and Gorn and see a bit beyond the manner and the uniforms. Their complexions, which at the spaceport and on the bus were a granitelike gray, now seemed lighter, almost orange. There was a certain toughness to their skin, which, on close inspection, resembled the hides of great animals. Soft they were not.

“I’m Corporal Sugra,” she began, reintroducing herself. “Sergeant Gorn and I will be with you over the next week. We will be staying right down the hall from this complex and will be available to answer your questions and give you basic preparation. At various times others from the government will come in to talk about specific areas. Now, we understand you have just come from a bitter experience, and you are now most concerned about what this new world is like and what it both has for you and will do for you.”

And to me, I thought.

“First of all, is there anyone here who does not know why Medusa and the other worlds of the Warden Diamond are used by the Confederacy for exile?” She paused a moment, then seemed satisfied that we all knew at least the basics.

“The microorganism that is now within all of your bodies will be making itself at home. Please don’t be alarmed. You will find there is no sensation, no feeling at all that anything is different. In fact, you will probably feel increasingly better as this process goes on because, despite the best medical care, the human system is riddled with disease and physical problems of one sort or another. Since the Warden organism depends on you for its place to live, it wants that place to be in as good a condition as possible. So it will repair what is wrong, make more efficient that which is inefficient, and will not only cure you of any diseases or infections you might have but prevent any new ones. That’s how it pays you back; it’s a good deal.”

A big, gruff-looking man near me gave a low cough. “Yeah—but what’s our price?” he grumbled.

“There is no … price, as you call it,” she responded. “As you may know, it is theorized that the Warden organism was native only to the planet Lilith and was spread by early explorers to the other three worlds, where it mutated to survive. Some people on Lilith have the power to order the Wardens around, inflicting pain and pleasure and in some cases even creating and destroying through willpower alone. On Charon this ability is even more pronounced, with physical and mental power giving those trained in controlling their Wardens almost magical abilities over themselves and others. On Cerberus minds are actually exchanged between the people as a by-product of the Warden organism. In all cases there are more positives than minuses in the by-products. But here on Medusa survival dominates all other things. The organism here is more colonial in nature, sticking to whatever it’s in and not bothering with others.”

“You can’t be saying that there’s no effect,” a skeptical woman put in.

“No, there is an effect, but it is limited to each individual. It is also universal and automatic, so that no willpower or training is required. Everyone can use it equally, making Medusa a far better place. What it did to us, what it is doing to you, is totally altering your basic biochemistry. We look human, we act human; but under the microscope we are not human. Here, on Medusa, the Warden colonies survive in us only as long as we ourselves survive. So the colonies mutated humanity here to survive the climate, no matter what. The changes are far more extensive and comprehensive than on the other three planets. Our entire cellular structure is modified, with each Warden colony in each cell in total and complete control, ready to act at a moment’s notice, either independently or collectively as required.”

“To what end?” I asked, genuinely curious. “What does it do?”

“Instant adaptation to whatever the needs of the organism are,” she told us. “We can survive almost any temperature extreme. Our bodies can consume and use almost any substance to provide whatever energy is needed under any conditions. We could go stark naked into that snowy wilderness you saw coming in and we would neither freeze nor starve. Water is our only requirement. We can adapt to extremes of radiation, drink boiling water, even walk barefoot on hot coals. Medusans are in every way superior to humanity, or even to those of the other three worlds. Instant evolution, it’s been called. What we need, we have or become. As I say, the system is automatic—no thought or direction is required.”

“That’s why the bus and buildings were unheated,” I thought aloud. “You don’t need heat.”

She nodded. “Natural insulation is enough to keep everything fairly uniform and comfortable for us. These uniforms mark our station and rank, and provide such handy things as pockets. They in no way provide protection, because we don’t need any—and neither will you.”

She paused to let that sink in a bit, then looked over at Sgt. Gorn and nodded to him. He took up the briefing.

“For now you will remain in these specially heated and insulated quarters,” he told us. “Over the course of a week, the Warden organism will make Medusans out of you physically. Our purpose is to make you Medusans socially and politically as well. We have here a society that is one of man’s old dreams. Every single man, woman, and child here is superior in every physical way. To that our current First Minister, Talant Ypsir, has added his considerable skills at political organization and social engineering to create a highly advanced society. On Lilith or Charon you might wind up as primitive migrant workers. Here we are technologically advanced, with all that implies. Your place in our society will be determined by your mind and skills, not by any physical or technological limitations. This world looks harsh, I know, but once it no longer threatens you it becomes a world of wonder and beauty and comfort. You are lucky to be Medusans, considering the alternatives.”

I wondered about that.

The barracks-style setup meant we nine would get to know one another pretty well, at least in a superficial sense. Although one couple preferred not to talk at all about their pasts, from the six who would it was clear that this was a very unusual crop. Every single one of the six—seven, including my cover—had killed at least one other human being in a cold and premeditated way. I suspected that all nine of us represented the most violent kinds of criminal minds. No smugglers or embezzlers here—we were the cream of the crop.

As the “kid” in the group, I found the others curiously kind and protective toward me, almost to a one. Those who have never encountered real criminals before might find that a bit hard to believe; but, in fact, most criminals are pretty nice, ordinary people except for one little area. All these people were extraordinary, because in contrast to my—Tarin Bul’s—rather direct and sloppy job, they had all killed in extremely clever technological ways.

Just how Talant Ypsir planned to turn such people into model citizens of his new superior society we all discovered the next day. A tall man came in, looking granite-gray in the same way Gorn and Sugra had when we’d first met them. He introduced himself as Solon Kabaye, Gray Basin’s Political Commissioner. His uniform was all black but still styled in the military manner. He had gold braid on his sleeves and a golden-colored belt. On his pocket was the obvious government symbol—a stylized woman’s head with a hair full of what had to be snakes. His manner was easygoing and conversational, like that of most politicians; I may have been the only one to notice his skin color change from that light gray to the Granger shade of Gorn and Sugra. Here was a graphic indication that something inside him worked very differently from anything we were accustomed to.

“I’m going to be basic and blunt,” he told us, “because that’s the best way to start. Let’s go over a couple of facts right away, shall we? First—you’re stuck. There is no escape from Medusa, no place to run. Therefore, you’d best get used to the world as quickly as possible and settle in as best you can. Your future—the rest of your lives—is here, tied to Medusa. The system works, and it works well. It takes into account our planetary assets, our inherent problems and limitations as Warden citizens, and it gives a strong measure of prosperity to the people. The system evolved over the past century, as various ideas were tried and discarded. This one works. You didn’t ask to be here—but you put yourselves here by your own actions. We didn’t ask for you, either. Frankly, unless you possess some new technological knowledge that could be of use to us, you’re not really needed here. So we have to find out just where you fit—then you fit. You either fit, or you take that last step into the deferred oblivion from which coming here saved you. That’s the bottom line.”

This was tough talk, and very discomforting as well. Still, it was also very professionally timed. We were stuck here, on an alien world, waiting for a something we couldn’t see, hear, or feel to take over our bodies. Quite simply, we had no real options. After the first night they had even taken away the thermal wear while we slept, leaving us with nothing but flimsy white hospital-type gowns. Try to run now, boy, out into a frigid wilderness.

“Sounds like the Confederacy,” Turnel, the ruddy, gruff resident grouch of our group noted half under his breath. Of course Kabaye heard him and smiled slightly.

“Perhaps it does. The Confederacy is a society that exists because it works. That doesn’t make it the best society, or the most efficient, or anything else, but it’s there because it works for the majority of people.”

“Well, we’re the minority,” noted Edala, a tough, worldly woman prisoner.

“True,” Kabaye agreed. “We all are. I was born and raised in the Confederacy, same as you. So was Talant Ypsir, our First Minister. And now we’re here, and you’re here, and, ironically, folks like the First Minister and myself find ourselves the government rather than opposed to the government. We’re faced with the same problems as the Confederacy, and we have additional problems because of Medusa’s limitations. Our advantage, though, is that Medusa is the wealthiest of the Warden worlds since we control the raw-materials sources, and, with a Warden organism not trying to get in the way of building stuff, we can best exploit these resources. So, let me tell you the score here and then I’ll tell you how you fit in.”

The “score,” as it were, was that we came from a somewhat totalitarian society that believed in the basic goodness of man to a very totalitarian society run by men and women who were convinced that humans would always, given a choice, do the wrong thing. Therefore, a society tightly and rigidly controlled, in which all the rules were known and posted and no violations were tolerated, was Ypsir’s new vision. It turned out to be not nearly as new as he thought, but a very old idea indeed.

There were less than thirteen million Medusans, scattered around the so-called temperate zones in small, en-, closed cities and towns linked by magne-bus and a freight service using the same tracks. Electric power was generated basically by geothermal wells, and the location and size of the cities were determined by just how much power was available. Medusa controlled the Diamond’s freighter fleet, digging raw materials out of the mineral-rich moons of the next nearest neighbor out-system, the great ringed gas giant Momrath. These were unloaded at specific freight terminals strategically located around the planet so that the cities could be most economically served. The reason for cities like Gray Basin was not only their large geothermal sources of power, but also because, being so far north, magne-tracks could be laid over the permanently frozen ocean to the north and thus connect continents. All travel was available, but it was expensive, subject to frequent nasty weather conditions, and not practical for heavy freight.

Some of the cities were quite large, but most had between fifty and a hundred thousand people. All were self-contained, and all nonequatorial ones were, like Gray Basin, dug in rather than built on the surface; and each one specialized in just a few industries. Gray Basin, for example, specialized in transportation and related industries on the surface. All of the magne-busses, some of the freight containers, and much of the buried guidance track were made here. One town built computers—a surprise to me, since I’d assumed that such things would be strictly prohibited by the Confederacy guardians. A few specialized in food production and distribution, mostly synthetics and food imported from Lilith and Charon. It was true, as Sugra had told us, that we could eat almost anything—yet, as Kabaye was quick to point out, the fact that we could eat human flesh did not mean that we preferred it to steak. Being able to eat something was not the same as either liking it or enjoying it.

Clearly Medusa’s economy worked closely with that of Cerberus, next in-system. The Cerberans helped design the products Medusa made, and handled just about all the computer software, as well as taking raw materials like basic steel, plastics, and the like we turned out and making things that were of use on their and other worlds but not here. For example, the very concept of a speedboat was ridiculous on Medusa, but on the Cerberan water world speedboats were in great demand.

The factories and industries of Medusa were basically automated, but there was a job for every human. Natives went to state schools from ages four to twelve, then were examined in a number of areas including aptitudes and intelligence potential and placed in the particular training track for which they were most suited. This was a bit more ponderous than the Confederacy’s method of breeding you to your job, but it served the same purpose.

Also contrary to Confederacy custom, families were maintained for those early years, although they were often nontraditional and always “state-determined. Group marriages and group families were the rule, partly because of the need to bear and raise children and partly in the name of “efficiency,” a word of which I was already tiring.

There were forty-four wage steps, or grades possible, although the top four grades were strictly top government personnel and there was only one Grade 44, naturally.

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 they 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 fuutre.”

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…