Identity Matrix (1982) (18 page)

I was pregnant.

The very news, knowing for sure that the worst had happened, calmed me a bit, since, at least, it outlined a series of actions. I knew from the start that I wasn't ready for this sort of thing, not yet, anyway, and that left abortion as the only option. The trouble was, the medical facilities at IMC were entirely governed by government regulations, and while they see-sawed on the abortion question and had for many years they cur-rently didn't allow it in government facilities except to save the life of the mother. I was furious at this—they didn't have to carry the kid, let alone bear it under these circumstances—but they wouldn't let me take the only obvious way out. There seemed a particular irony to my problem, since we were of undetermined status (although officially on the government payroll) at IMC and it had been many months since either Dory or I had seen the sun. I wasn't about to take this, though, and finally confessed the problem to Jeff.

He arranged an appointment with Harry Parch.

I'd seen almost nothing of the man since the first few days at IMC, and I'd had the impression that he'd been away more than here which suited everybody just fine, but walking into his office once again I found him the same cool fish, only more cruel and infuriating than ever.

"So you got knocked up and you're stuck," he said with a trace of amusement. I grew furious at his tone and felt myself becoming flush with anger, yet I held it in. No matter what kind of slimy eel the man was, he was the only one who could help.

So instead of yelling at him, I just replied, "I'm in trouble, I have a problem, and my status here keeps mefrom resolving it. I'm asking—pleading—for your help. It's only a problem because of your goddamned govern-ment restrictions."

He nodded. "I'll agree that the situation is compli-cated beyond normal bounds. Just what do you want me to do about it? I can't order the clinic to ignore those policies—the folks that slap them on pay our bills and our salaries.

Frankly, my influence just doesn't extend into the medical field."

"I know that. They already explained that to me. But we're in Nevada, a state with liberal laws on almost everything. I've talked to several women here, and they tell me there are abortion clinics in Las Vegas."

"I thought it was something like that." He sighed. "I don't mind telling you that you present me with a real problem, since you certainly know too much at this point for true security's sake." He paused, hands to-gether, thinking it over.

Finally he said, "However, I can sympathize with your situation. If it were strictly up to me, there'd be no problem. I doubt if you could do much harm anyway, unless you ran into some Urulu. You're too trusting, too much of an idealist. Tell you what, though—I'll pass this on to the full Directorate of IMC, which includes myself and Dr. Eisenstadt, and recom-mend we allow it. It could be a little while, though, so you'll have to just grin and bear it until then. Everyone's not here right now and I have to leave again shortly for Washington."

I had a sinking feeling. "How long?"

He shrugged. "As soon as possible. That's all I can promise."

"It'll have to do," I agreed, resignedly.

I had, naturally, talked all this over with Dory, and she seemed interested in the idea of me getting out, however briefly.

"Look, I've been in lots of places you haven't," she told me. "I told you about some of the things I've seen." She had been giving me regular reports, since my own areas of IMC were now routinely familiar but off the beaten track.

It was clear that IMC was experimenting on human beings, starting with some terminally ill vol-unteers from various government hospitals. Close to death and without hope, these people had allowed themselves to be placed in the two sinister chairs downstairs. Early results, rumor said, had been very encouraging.

Finally some volunteers who were themselves on the project had been tested—with horribly mixed results. Bright young men and women who now had pieces of themselves missing, muddled, or scrambled, now kept around in whatever menial tasks they could do until the bugs were worked out. Eisenstadt, it had been said, opposed the experiments at this point but was overruled by the Pentagon bosses in Washington who were desperate for results. Now he was working eighteen-hour days and seven-day weeks to break the puzzle, because, of course, those damaged people had had their "identity matrices" recorded prior to the experiment. He was determined to restore them.

It rang true to me, first because it sounded like Stuart, and also because the pressures would be mounting. From my security contacts, mostly through Jeff, I had learned of some independent confirmation that a second alien group might well be operating and that the Urulu story might not be just a common bluff. If the Urulu scared them, The Association practically terrified them, not just because of its philosophy (since we had no real way of knowing if the Urulu were any better) but because it represented Earth as a potential battleground between two superior alien forces and technologies, helpless to do anything about it. The pressure to crack the last bits of the identity matrix puzzle would be enormous.

That they would do it neither Dory nor I doubted. But when they did—what would they do with it, these faceless, nameless Pentagon bosses? It made some sort of public disclosure even more imperative.

Time passed, though, with my own problems taking on more urgency than the larger, global picture. If they went too long without a decision, I might have to have a far more dangerous and drastic type of abortion and that scared me most of all. I began to think that, in spite of everything, I might have to bear the child.

Nine weeks after that fateful intercourse I finally got a summons to Parch's office once again. He looked tired and haggard and not at all in the mood for trivialities like me. Still, he said, "All right. They approved it. We’ve made an appointment for you at one of these places for one tomorrow afternoon, and will, of course, deduct the considerable cost from your account here.

Obermeyer will drive you there and stick with you. It's almost a three-hour drive, and who knows how long there so we've approved your staying at a motel in town for the night, then driving back in the morning. I picked Overmeyer because he's at least partially responsible for this, but it'll be his head if anything, and I mean anything, goes wrong. His and yours, too. Understand?"

"I understand," I nodded glumly.

"Oh—the motel's on you, too. We'll pay for the gas."

"Thanks a lot," I muttered sourly, and left him.

I met Dory for lunch—she was now working in one of the computer centers as an operator, seemingly enjoy-ing it, although she had some problems with everyone taking a thirteen-year-old kid seriously as a co-worker—and told her the news.

She brightened at the news I was getting out. "Look," she whispered, her tone becoming somewhat conspira-torial, "while you're there you can get word out."

I was startled. "To who? And how? I'm not going to be alone—except for, well, you know… "

"You've gotta know somebody's home phone number. tend a telegram by phone and charge it to that number."

I considered it. It actually sounded plausible. My own old number would, of course, have been long disconnected, but there were a number of people whose numbers I knew and who wouldn't even notice such a charge on their bill. "But who?"

She thought a moment. "How about Hari Calvert?"

I thought about it and the more I thought the more sense it made. Calvert was the biggest syndicated muck-raking columnist in Washington. He'd sell his soul for a story like this if he hadn't already sold it long ago—but once he had it he wouldn't let go. And he was listed, so they could phone in the telegram without my having to give specific addresses.

Still, I was extremely nervous about the abortion and this only doubled my anxiety. Yet, the abortion might disguise my actions, and it was worth a try. That was all I could promise, I'd try.

I won't dwell on the ride into Vegas in the scorching sun, nor the abortion experience, except to say that Jeff seemed as worried and depressed as I was, so there was little conversation, and the clinic was the most dehu-manizing cattle barn I'd ever been in, with loads of miserable looking women, mostly teens it seemed, sit-ting around waiting to be called. The experience itself was administered by doctors who had the same regard for you as they did for a piece of meat and it was painful and horrible to undergo, and more of a shock to my nervous system than I'd expected.

It was also, in a more personal way, very depressing. No matter what my liberal feelings on abortion, they'd sprung from the viewpoint of being a man, one who would never have even the threat of undergoing one himself and not the slightest idea of what it was like. And, somewhere deep inside me, I realized I'd always bear the cross of the action, always feel like I'd killed, if not someone else, then at least a little part of me.

Jeff was solicitous and left me alone when I wanted to be. We were registered in as "Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Overmeyer" which, I supposed, was only fitting. It was odd, somehow, that the most abnormal combination of circumstances imaginable gave such an air of total so-cial normalcy.

Still, he left me alone in the room to sleep a little—I was pretty shaky still and hadn't slept at all the night before—and, there I was, alone in the motel room with a motel phone.

I admit I lay there on that bed staring at that phone, knowing what I had to do but also knowing that if I waited much longer, Jeff would return and my chance would be gone.

Finally I got up the nerve to do it.

I charged the telegram to my father's law firm. Although he was long dead the firm continued and even prospered and it'd never much changed its number. I took a chance in identifying myself as George Lloyd's secretary, since it'd been long enough she might not still work there, but they took the message and didn't seem to have any problems.

I sent, "Top secret government mind control project well underway in Nevada desert near Yucca Flat. People held virtual prisoners to security there." I didn't sign it, of course.

But it was done—and now it was up to Hari Calvert.

I had barely finished when the key rattled in the door and I almost jumped back into bed as Jeff opened it. The initial scare was followed by some relief—if he were this close he couldn't have been overhearing me at the switchboard, and if he were lurking just outside he would have come in earlier.

He brought the local papers and seemed totally free of suspicion. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," I told him, and I was, although a bit weak. "I feel starved, though. What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "About seven thirty."

I got up, and found myself slightly dizzy. "Umph. Still a little weak. They said it was all in the mind, though, so I guess my mind decides what's important.

What's for dinner?"

He laughed, looking relieved. "Glad to see you more like yourself again.

Look, there's no room service in this dump, and none of my instructions covered barring the doors. Parch is pretty convinced you could shout to the rooftops `the aliens are coming!' and only get thrown in the asylum anyway.

What say we make the most of tonight? Go down to a good restaurant, hit a casino, then get a good night's sleep."

I smiled. "That's the first bright spot I've had in weeks," I told him with total sincerity. "Just let me get dressed."

I dressed quickly, not only because I genuinely was anxious to get out but also because I feared that something would go wrong, that they'd call back and inquire about a telegram or something.

And it was a good night, although I was still feeling slightly weak and it didn't last very late. It was the first time since Seattle, so very long ago, that I'd been out in public, and I was a different person now even if in the same body. It was fun to be out with someone, to walk arm-in-arm down a casino-lit strip, to let go a little and hug him when he hit on the crap table. Being with him I felt very normal and very secure. I was still aware of the heads turning, the admiring glances, but it didn't bother me that night.

And, later, in the motel room, he held me when I wanted to be held and we kissed goodnight and I thought that he was probably the only man who had any understanding of me.

I wasn't falling in love with Jeff, and still felt no real sexual passion for him, but I liked him a lot, not just for being a nice person but for understanding. I didn't really know myself yet, or what I wanted or even could be, but I did know that Jeff had brought me, in the worst of circumstances, the closest I'd ever felt to belonging, to fitting in, to being a part of the human race, and I owed him for that.

It almost made me feel guilty that I had betrayed his kindness and trust in me with the telegram. Almost, but not quite. For looming behind Jeff was IMC, and Harry Parch, and I certainly felt the same about them.

I had taken the risk and done what I could, and I could do no more. It was out of my hands now. But I had some satisfaction in the wording of the message. Parch had been right—had I even mentioned "alien in-vaders" or

"body switching" in my telegram it would have been tossed right in the circular file with the other nut cases. But I hadn't. I had lived in and around Wash-ington too long to make that kind of mistake. I had offered instead the irresistible.

We had been taken to IMC in July; it was now Febru-ary of the next year and things were still running according to routine. I'd long since finished with Dan Pauley; I had no idea where he was or even if he still was anyplace. I was now working with the computer techs on assembling a basic history and psychological profile of the Urulu and it was proving fascinating to me, although it would probably have driven most peo-ple nuts to go through all that minutiae for some little scrap here and there. Much of what I found confirmed the essentials of Pauley's own statements, although, I had to note, they had all been the most casual, friendly talkers any interrogator would want and yet they'd told precious little anybody wanted to know.