Identity Matrix (1982) (32 page)

"Parch?" I asked.

He shook his head no. "Not self-destruct, either. The place was melted, fused together. A high energy weapon from the air beyond what you have and very different from what we would use. The Association had hit it quick and hard."

"So you were still stuck," Dory noted.

He nodded. "Stuck was right. I almost died in that damned desert just getting back to the road. I thought a car would
never
come along. I was sick for two days. But I recovered, and eventually worked my way around to two other isolated safe houses, one in Utah and one in northeastern California. Fused too, into nothing. Oh, I could have gone on around the continent and maybe overseas, but I got the message. They'd made us, somehow, and attacked all locations simultaneously and so thoroughly that there was little use. That left me only one way out, and I didn't want to take it."

"Which was?" I prompted.

"There's an emergency ship out there, in orbit," he told us. "It's pretty well disguised and its screens would keep anybody from The Association to NORAD from getting curious. The type of attack they launched, the signs that it'

d been at least a year earlier, maybe more, and the fact that there had been no Urulu reprisals told me that nobody, probably, got away. Maybe there's a few loose like me, but, if so, they're laying so low they wouldn't make a move.

Besides, even if they took the emergency craft they'd arrange for another. No use stranding some of your own people for nothing."

"Won't your own people start wondering and check up on you?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "Not unless they get a real distress signal. This is off the beaten path, considered not worth bothering about. The only way they'll come is if somebody gave them a call and asked them in, like from the emergency ship."

"Dan—why haven't you just gone to that ship?" Dory wanted to know. "Why wait so long? And why come back and see us—now?"

He sighed. "Look, if I'd taken that ship out and filed my report on what I knew, they might just write Earth off, or, instead, they might come over and wipe out every man, woman, and child on the planet in the same way as a doctor would kill disease germs. I've been here too long. I like the people, and I see the potential here for it to go either way. Look—long ago, I was in a similar situation far away from here. Different world, different kinds of people, night and day, but it was still comparable. I took the easy way then, and that world got destroyed. I simply can not bear the responsibility of that twice, at least not without trying to do something about it. But once I report, I have about as much influence in the final decision as an army sergeant in the field has with his commanding general.

You see my problem?"

We nodded, and, still, Dory pressed the questions that were on both our minds. "So why now? And why us?"

He hesitated a moment, then replied, "O.K., I'll put it right on the line. IMC's moves have pitted them directly against The Association. They've written us off and joined battle directly. I think the nationalism, petty jealousies, prejudices, and rivalries of this world favor The Associa-tion hands down, but, in the long run, it makes little difference to humans who might win. It forces my hand. I know neither of you liked being in the position of having to decide the fate of the planet the responsibil-ity is too terrible. But
I
'
ve
had that choice dumped on me, and I can't avoid it any more. I think Dr. Eisenstadt was right in the beginning, but we were a lot more naive then and the timing was wrong. It may still be, but I think we've reached the deadline, and I feel I've got to call that ship and report. I want you two to come with me. I want them to see you, talk to you, examine you. I think you two are the only hope left for saving this planet."

I shook my head unbelievingly.
"Us?
"

He nodded. "You know the process. Neither of you are what we call

'body-native' so you'll be more acceptable. And, frankly, I think, as Dr.

Eisenstadt did, that you two, particularly now, have grown so much inside that you best represent the qualities my people will be look-ing for."

"I find that hard to believe," I told him sincerely. "We're not in the least representative of humanity."

"Exactly," he agreed. "That's why. With so much at stake we have to rig the game a bit, but you'll admit I know my people better than you. I know what I'm ask-ing. Risk again. Putting yourself on the line, maybe your lives. At the mercy of an alien race so different from you that they aren't superficially human, like me. I can't force you. You have to make your own decision."

I didn't know what to think or how I felt, and I could only look over at Dory.

Her face was inscrutable, but her big brown eyes met my gaze for a moment, and I knew, then, what we would do.

"You're going anyway, aren't you?" she asked me. He nodded.

She sighed. "Then I guess we really have no choice."

And she was right, of course, although it seemed like nothing had really been our choice for the past six years. It just didn't seem
fair,
somehow, to risk all that we now had, to ask us to do it, because of some duty, some responsibility, to the future of the human race. The human race had never felt much duty or responsibility for us. They had felt no responsibility for poor Victor's plight, certainly, when and if they recognized it at all—it just wasn't any of their business. They were forcing Dorian Tomlinson into extreme personal agony, to live a life in some sort of gray ghetto cut off from family and friends or, perhaps, commit suicide somewhere in what would have been a terrible waste of a wonderful indi-vidual. Even Misty Carpenter was really a cypher, a cartoon in the public's mind, an object of lust because of what was really a physical deformity of the sexual parts of her body. Would those lusting people still be around when I grew old and saggy? Did one of them even think of the physical pain, the back strain and other side effects, I lived with because of that?

Stuart's old, original face seemed to come to my mind.
He
cared. And Pauley, too, telling Harry Parch that most people's lives were so empty, so devoid of meaning, that they might as well have never lived at all. Make your life matter, Stuart had said. I thought of history, of the faces and personalities that marched forever in our minds for good or ill. History was the account of people who
mattered.

Dory was right. We
had
to go.

"What next?" I asked him. "I mean, that agent will be missed no matter what."

He nodded. "But we have a long journey to complete. There's only one place for me to call the ship. We have to return to Alaska."

Full circle,
I thought.
For better or worse, it will end where it began.

Chapter Fifteen

There seemed to be very little point in subterfuge. If Parch really wanted us, he could have us, although it seemed we'd have to either keep some distance from Pauley as long as possible while headed in the same direction. We agreed that the best way to handle it was to go back and go to bed—as if I were capable of any-thing else at that point—and proceed normally up the coast.

Since we weren't supposed to know about our tail, we just had to act as if we didn't have one. Had the tail vanished and we with him there might be a big outcry—but if we continued openly and normally up the coast and made no effort to hide, they could never be sure that their man's disappearance was directly con-nected to us or not.

Pauley checked our car, found a small electronic tracer, and decided to leave it there. The more open we were, the better. We agreed on an itinerary for each night up the coast, and Pauley warned us that he would certainly have to switch bodies again but would pace us all the way.

Dory was a bit upset at this. "You're gonna do to somebody else what you did to
us,
"
she protested.

He nodded. "Or worse. But it
has
to be done, Dory."

"You mean—kill?"

"If I have to," he replied. "I want no trails. There's too much at stake. Dory, all I can promise is that I'll try my best to cause as little harm and pain as I can."

She was irreconcilable, but he left us shortly after that and there was nothing either of us could do or say.

The next day we continued on up the coast, not going too far because of our lack of sleep, then continued on U.S. 101 now, still along the coast for a while.

We continued to hit the sights although our mood was far different from the previous few days at the start. Fi-nally, though, we relaxed and had a really good time, perhaps being even more carefree and uninhibited than normal as it went on. Deep down, neither of us knew if we'd ever be able to do this again.

We finally cut over in Washington State and reached Seattle, a pretty city that had changed little in six years. We were back in civilization again, for a little bit, anyway, but things were already starting to return to nor-mal with the funerals now over. Only the still half-staffed flags reminded us of the momentous change that had taken place.

A ferry was due to leave for Alaska in two days, but, in
July, a stateroom was just out of the question and tak-ing the car even less possible. The fact was, the tourists and their agents had the best all sewn up every year, and, unless you were very lucky the only thing you could get was a general ticket, which entitled you to go on board but little else. Although we were told that a cabin could be squeezed in between Ketchikan and Juneau we decided, what the hell, we'd rough it. I ar-ranged with a long-term parking agency to keep the car and we went on a shopping spree far different than the one we'd gone on in Seattle so very long ago, haunting the best camping supply dealers for sleeping bags, air mattresses, and a small portapump of light plastic. We were delighted to find one that slept two, and took it. With Dory's slight build and my disproportionate one we decided against backpacking, but the whole thing was put in a large, thin casing with handles that, although it weighed a ton, was manageable. We also bought some heavier-duty clothing for the trip and seemed set, finally heading down to the huge blue ship at the dock in the late afternoon.

Because we were getting on in Seattle we had among the first choices of location, and chose an inside place in the forward lounge, just putting our suitcases and bedroll there so that others wouldn't usurp it. Flying was never considered as an option in our talks with Dan; he still wouldn't fly unless his life depended on it, and maybe not even then, and that gave us the excuse to be nostalgic.

We'd been bothered with men most of the trip, and I was used to cooling them down anyway, but I think we were so openly and blatantly affectionate on shipboard that it scared a lot of them off. Oh, the occasional "You never had
a
real
man" slob, sure, but nothing we couldn't handle. Still, it always irritated me that men had more relative freedom than women. I doubt if either Dory or I had gone anywhere without a little can of mace and a portable scream alarm in our purses, and you were never sure whether the next guy you met was a nice fellow, a jerk, or a would-be rapist. It was infuriating to be walking to my car back at the club and then have to drive home even if it was a nice night, but I always was conscious of how damned lucky I'd been, and I'd known a few women who hadn't.

That, I guess, was why it was nice to be alone with Dory on a trip like this.

The undercurrent of fear was still there, but it didn't seem intrusive when you were with someone.

There had been no sign of Dan Pauley during the whole trip, but we suspected he was never far away. We also suspected that Parch's men—two, probably now, at least—were also somewhere about. We didn't let it worry us.

The ferry was a different one than the one on which we'd met, larger, fancier, but it was similar enough in design to make us a little nostalgic and bring back the old memories. The topside solarium, the gift shop, cafe-teria, you name it—and the young campers, backpack-ers, and hordes of tourists.

It took three and a half days to reach Haines Junction, end of the line in this case, and I couldn't suppress a look to the east, where, out of sight beyond high moun-tains, Skagway and the Chillicoot Pass lay.

It was another day's bumpy bus ride from Haines to Fairbanks, but it was new territory now for the both of us and we enjoyed it while we could. Still, there was tension underlying the journey now, building with each passing kilometer marker on the highway, as we knew that we were approaching the moment of truth.

It occurred to me that Parch might well know, or at least suspect, where we were heading, and that worried me. He could be there, waiting, as he had been when the shuttle had landed six years before to disgorge another occupant for an Indian girl's body.

We stayed the night in Fairbanks, still very much on schedule, and in the morning rented a car and drove south along Route 3 past Mt. McKinley National Park—the mountain was socked in and we could see nothing—to Cantwell, then turned east on Route 8, a good dirt road with occasional paved spots, for several miles.

Traffic had been heavy on 3 but aside from an occa-sional pickup truck we neither passed nor were passed by much on the dirt road.

We proceeded until we hit Milepost 12, then stopped, turned around, and proceeded back a mile. If all was well, Pauley should be waiting with a signal by the side of the road, a sign reading, "Need a lift to McKinley," which would be fairly natural except that this wasn't exactly the world's best-travelled road, and a code-phrase to double-check.

At almost the 11 Milepost we saw somebody. He was a tall, thin, black man in his forties dressed casually, and he was holding a sign.

"Need a lift to McKinley."

"I'll be damned," I muttered, and came to a stop. He
ran up to the car, looked in at us, nodded, and said, "Screw Harry Parch."

"Get in," I told him, and Dory popped up the back
door lock for him. He got in and said, "Just go a few hundred yards further up—there's a tree with a white mark on it. Stop there."