Read Online Identity Matrix (1982) by Jack L. Chalker - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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someone.
"I—I'm sorry," I mumbled, then looked up.
It was a young woman's face, perhaps eighteen or so, that I saw smiling sweetly at me. She was dressed in a heavy red flannel shirt with red stocking cap, tough-looking jeans and hiking boots, yet she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my entire life. Her reddish-blond hair hadn't a hint of dye, her bright, deep blue eyes sparkled with life and inner beauty, and her face, bereft of makeup, was both tre-mendously sexy and yet somehow angelic. Angelic . The word might have been created for her.
"Well, young lady, you were really in a hurry to go nowhere, weren't you?" she said laughingly, her voice soft and musical. "You're not hurt, are you?"
I picked myself up and sat on the cold deck, arms around my knees. "It's kinda wet," was all I could manage, unable to take my eyes off her.
She picked one of the chaises and sat down, looking at me. "You're an Indian, aren't you? What tribe?" She was being friendly with just a hint of patronizing that was inevitable when talking to someone of my age.
I nodded. "I'm a Tlingit," I told her, echoing Dan's lie. For all I knew it could be the truth.
"A Tlingit! Then you come from around here."
I nodded, drawing a little more on Dan's story. "Ad-miralty Island," I told her.
"Then you'll be getting off soon," she responded, ges-turing slightly to her right. "There's Admiralty over there."
"No," I told her. "I'm going all the way to Seattle."
"Seattle!" Her patronizing tone was growing and get-ting a little hard to take, but I had to grin and bear it. Like it or not, I'd better get used to this sort of thing. "What takes you there?"
I considered my answer carefully. Until this moment I hadn't really considered a cover story, and my creativ-ity was being sorely tested. Still, I had to gamble some-time on somebody else—and she seemed as good as any and less threatening than most.
"They were gonna put me in an orphanage," I told her as sincerely as I could. "
Daddy was killed in a boat accident and Mommy's been—gone—for some time.
Do you know what kinda orphanages they got for Indians? Horrible, drafty places out in the middle of nowhere run by a bunch of white bureaucrats—no offense—who are just there for the fat paychecks. A prison ' s better than those places."
She looked suitably concerned. Blonde and blue-eyed young women generally felt a lot of social concern at this stage in their lives. I'd taught enough of them to know that it wasn't much of a gamble to play on her inevitable social conscience.
"Oh, come on. I've been to a few orphanages in my time and they aren't that dreadful at all." She pro-nounced "been" as "bean" and I marked her as a Canadian.
Looking as sadly indignant as I could, I responded, " White orphanages.
Whites are people. Indians are wards of the state. I'm thirteen now, but as far as the govern-ment's concerned all Indians are thirteen forever." Now the coup de grace . "Aw, what's the use? You couldn't understand anyway."
It hit home, I could see that. Thanking my entire social science and teaching background fervently, I waited for her move.
Her face was serious now, and she looked at me thoughtfully. "So you're running away," she almost whis-pered. "How'd you get this far?"
I told her some of the story, altered to make it believ-able. I said I'd stowed away on a fishing boat north and gotten stuck in Skagway. Realizing I was in a dead end trap, I'd then used the truck trailer gambit to stow away again coming south, this time as far as possible. I told her, too, that the Bureau of Indian Affairs men were looking for me, which is why I had to be careful. I even showed her my torn jeans and skinned knee. The hard-est part wasn't the lie, which was less a lie than the truth would have seemed, but keeping to contractions and a slightly more childish vocabulary. I still came out sounding awfully bright for my age, but that was O.K.
The truth was, I really didn't
"I—I'm sorry," I mumbled, then looked up.
It was a young woman's face, perhaps eighteen or so, that I saw smiling sweetly at me. She was dressed in a heavy red flannel shirt with red stocking cap, tough-looking jeans and hiking boots, yet she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my entire life. Her reddish-blond hair hadn't a hint of dye, her bright, deep blue eyes sparkled with life and inner beauty, and her face, bereft of makeup, was both tre-mendously sexy and yet somehow angelic. Angelic . The word might have been created for her.
"Well, young lady, you were really in a hurry to go nowhere, weren't you?" she said laughingly, her voice soft and musical. "You're not hurt, are you?"
I picked myself up and sat on the cold deck, arms around my knees. "It's kinda wet," was all I could manage, unable to take my eyes off her.
She picked one of the chaises and sat down, looking at me. "You're an Indian, aren't you? What tribe?" She was being friendly with just a hint of patronizing that was inevitable when talking to someone of my age.
I nodded. "I'm a Tlingit," I told her, echoing Dan's lie. For all I knew it could be the truth.
"A Tlingit! Then you come from around here."
I nodded, drawing a little more on Dan's story. "Ad-miralty Island," I told her.
"Then you'll be getting off soon," she responded, ges-turing slightly to her right. "There's Admiralty over there."
"No," I told her. "I'm going all the way to Seattle."
"Seattle!" Her patronizing tone was growing and get-ting a little hard to take, but I had to grin and bear it. Like it or not, I'd better get used to this sort of thing. "What takes you there?"
I considered my answer carefully. Until this moment I hadn't really considered a cover story, and my creativ-ity was being sorely tested. Still, I had to gamble some-time on somebody else—and she seemed as good as any and less threatening than most.
"They were gonna put me in an orphanage," I told her as sincerely as I could. "
Daddy was killed in a boat accident and Mommy's been—gone—for some time.
Do you know what kinda orphanages they got for Indians? Horrible, drafty places out in the middle of nowhere run by a bunch of white bureaucrats—no offense—who are just there for the fat paychecks. A prison ' s better than those places."
She looked suitably concerned. Blonde and blue-eyed young women generally felt a lot of social concern at this stage in their lives. I'd taught enough of them to know that it wasn't much of a gamble to play on her inevitable social conscience.
"Oh, come on. I've been to a few orphanages in my time and they aren't that dreadful at all." She pro-nounced "been" as "bean" and I marked her as a Canadian.
Looking as sadly indignant as I could, I responded, " White orphanages.
Whites are people. Indians are wards of the state. I'm thirteen now, but as far as the govern-ment's concerned all Indians are thirteen forever." Now the coup de grace . "Aw, what's the use? You couldn't understand anyway."
It hit home, I could see that. Thanking my entire social science and teaching background fervently, I waited for her move.
Her face was serious now, and she looked at me thoughtfully. "So you're running away," she almost whis-pered. "How'd you get this far?"
I told her some of the story, altered to make it believ-able. I said I'd stowed away on a fishing boat north and gotten stuck in Skagway. Realizing I was in a dead end trap, I'd then used the truck trailer gambit to stow away again coming south, this time as far as possible. I told her, too, that the Bureau of Indian Affairs men were looking for me, which is why I had to be careful. I even showed her my torn jeans and skinned knee. The hard-est part wasn't the lie, which was less a lie than the truth would have seemed, but keeping to contractions and a slightly more childish vocabulary. I still came out sounding awfully bright for my age, but that was O.K.
The truth was, I really didn't
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