The Orion Plan (40 page)

Hanson shook his head.
This is a mistake,
he thought.
Any delay is dangerous.
“And how are we supposed to monitor this truce? We can't detect the probe's cables. We have no idea where they're going underground or what they're doing down there.”

“That's true, sir. But the White House is working on the problem. They're trying to establish a reliable communications link with the Emissary, either by connecting our fiber-optic lines to the probe's cables or working with that translator. According to Gilbert, he's a doctor who fell on hard times and ended up living in Inwood Hill Park. The probe found him there and injected its devices into his brain.”

“The Emissary's translator is a homeless man?”

Gunter shrugged. “I guess the probe took what it could get. The Emissary's keeping the man hidden until the truce is finalized, but Gilbert said he had a way of getting in touch with him. The go-between is apparently our old friend Sarah Pooley.”

Hanson felt another surge of anger.
So that's where she went!
The Emissary must've seen Dr. Pooley's reports and realized she'd make a good ally. She'd finally found her evidence of extraterrestrial life, and now she was getting a chance to study it. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

“Sir?”

“She thinks she can make the decisions for everyone. The arrogant bitch.” He spat the last word, unable to stop himself. He was so angry he could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. “We should order the FBI and the police to look for Pooley. Her and the homeless translator.”

Gunter raised his eyebrows again. “Uh, I don't think we have the authority to do that, sir. The White House is serious about pursuing these negotiations.” The colonel had a look of disapproval on his face, which only made Hanson angrier. The old fool probably had a soft spot for Pooley. “In the meantime, should I cancel the mission briefing? I can alert the other senior officers.”

Hanson turned away from him. He stared at the jumbo screen instead, the map showing the flashing icons in New York and New Jersey and off the East Coast, each representing an infantry unit or a squadron of planes or a naval vessel. In his mind's eye, he saw the icons fading, vanishing from the screen. That's what would happen if they delayed the attack for too long. The Emissary would obliterate his army, and every other army on the planet.

I won't let it happen,
Hanson thought.
That's not my destiny.

He waited until his temples stopped pounding. Then he turned back to Gunter. “I want you to go back to Washington. Immediately. You're going to deliver a message to the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Council.”

The colonel nodded. “Yes, sir! What's the message?”

“Tell them I have grave concerns about the enemy's machinery at 172 Sherman Avenue. When my men inspected the metallic box in that apartment last night, they found indications that weapons might be hidden inside it.” In truth, there were no such indications, but that didn't matter. Hanson knew beyond a doubt that the enemy was hiding
something
there. “Before we finalize the truce, the Emissary has to allow us to inspect that machinery. We need to make sure it's not trying to deceive us.”

“That sounds reasonable, sir.”

“And one more thing. I want you to get in touch with the engineers at the Air Force Research Laboratory. Find out everything they've learned about the beamed-energy weapon we retrieved from Mr. Guzman's corpse. And tell them to come up with options for taking advantage of what they know.”

Gunter cocked his head. The old colonel seemed curious. “You have a plan in mind, sir?”

“Not yet. But I have an idea.”

 

TWENTY-FOUR

Joe spent the whole afternoon lying on a park bench in the Bronx. His sleep was fitful, and his dreams were full of worms.

They weren't ordinary earthworms. They were monstrous creatures, as thick as tree trunks and hundreds of feet long. Their skin wasn't soft and pink—it was hard and brown and covered with scaly ridges. At one end of each worm's body was a ravenous red mouth, with thousands of teeth plowing and churning the soil. At the other end was a jagged spike.

Joe woke up, sweating, at least half a dozen times. The bench sat under the trees, but it was still unbearably hot. He wouldn't have been able to sleep at all if he wasn't so damn tired. After leaving Yankee Stadium that morning he'd walked across the Bronx like a zombie, heading north and then east. He'd finally stopped at Crescent Park on 233rd Street and collapsed on the bench, unable to take another step. He was about a mile from his old apartment building in Riverdale.

Every time he woke, Joe lifted his head from the bench's slats and looked around anxiously. His dreams had been so vivid he half-expected to see the giant worms in the park. Heart thumping, he looked up and down the street until he satisfied himself that everything was normal. Then he felt the overpowering fatigue again and went back to sleep.

But the bad dreams always returned. He saw the worms swarming in a deep, dark cavern. They clumped together in an enormous, living cluster, their bodies in constant motion, sliding and squirming. He saw one of the worms attack another, its teeth ripping into the hard, brown skin and its spike plunging into the red flesh underneath. Then he saw a worm slide into a long, flexible tube, constructed from a dozen rings of stone. The rings had been carved from the rocky walls of the cavern and strung together with plant roots. It was a suit of armor.

The worms made that thing,
Joe realized.
They're an intelligent species.

He woke up for a moment, terrified, then drifted off again. In his next dream he saw an army of worms, hundreds of them, all wearing their stone armor. They left their cavern together, carving tunnels through the soil, and burst into another cavern that was crowded with worms of a slightly different color. The creatures roiled in the darkness, biting and stabbing. Red flesh splattered on the cavern's walls.

Joe was nauseous and panting when he finally woke up for good. He sat upright on the bench and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to calm his throbbing heart. His vision was tinged with red, which seemed to be a remnant of his dreams. His new pants, so neatly pressed this morning, were now wrinkled and dirty, and his shirt was drenched with sweat.

He took a couple of deep breaths and looked straight ahead, gazing at the cars parked on 233rd Street. He tried again to reassure himself that everything was okay, but he knew the images he'd just seen weren't really dreams. They hadn't come from his own mind, his own imagination. Those pictures had come from the Emissary. The program had streamed the information to his brain this morning, to prepare him for his meeting with Tom Gilbert and Sarah Pooley. The images had embedded themselves in his memory.

He needed to speak with the Emissary. He looked down and stared at the cigarette butts on the ground.

“What were those creatures? Were they the life-forms that created you? The First People?”

No, they're the Second People. The species that we nearly exterminated.

Joe shook his head. “They're so horrible. So violent.”

They're simply a product of their environment, like all living things. They dwelled on a planet with limited resources, so there was fierce competition. Evolution favored the rise of intelligent creatures that could build weapons and defend their territories. And kill their rivals.

“But it's such a waste. Once they became intelligent, why didn't they agree to stop fighting?”

Look at your own species. In some ways, the human race is very similar to the Second People. Your wars are just as violent and wasteful. And you show no signs that you're ever going to stop.

“What about the First People? Are they different?”

The Emissary didn't answer. Joe waited ten seconds, twenty seconds, but she said nothing. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts, trying to compel her to respond.

“What's going on? You don't want to talk about your creators?”

Yes, the First People are different. They're so different from your species that I'm reluctant to describe them. You might become confused and afraid.

“What do they look like?”

Joe thought the Emissary would show him a picture, but she didn't. He sensed that the images of the First People were already inside his head, part of the stream of information she'd embedded in his brain, but for some reason she wouldn't let him see them. This refusal worried him.

“What's wrong? Are they more horrible than the worms?”

You're not ready yet. In good time, I'll show you pictures of the First People. For now, though, I can tell you that they benefited from a very abundant environment. First Planet is rich with natural resources, so rich that evolution proceeded on a special path there. Predators never evolved. All of the planet's species received their sustenance from sunlight.

“It's a world full of plants? No animals at all?”

Not exactly. Your definitions of “plant” and “animal” can't be applied to First Planet's life-forms. What I want to stress is that the ecosystems there are based on cooperation rather than competition. Cooperation maximizes the success of all the planet's species.

Joe nodded, his eyes still closed. He was trying hard to understand. He remembered what the Emissary had said about its machinery on Sherman Avenue and what it was doing there. “So First Planet is kind of like the Garden of Eden? And the First People are peaceful and harmonious and godlike?”

Yes, I suppose that analogy is roughly correct.

There was a hesitancy in her voice that Joe hadn't noticed before. He didn't think she was lying to him—their minds were so closely connected now, he felt sure he could detect an outright lie—but he suspected she was omitting something. And the omission was connected somehow to the images in his head that she wasn't allowing him to see.

“When will I be ready? What are you waiting for?”

The process can't be rushed, Joe. That's one of the lessons the First People learned from the catastrophe on Second Planet. When one intelligent species encounters another, they should focus on the things they have in common. I want you to see the First People as partners, not aliens.

Joe frowned. He wasn't convinced. “So what's the next step in the process?”

Your government officials will be wary. They'll want to see proof of my good intentions. They'll probably ask for more concessions before they agree to a truce. I'll need your help with that, Joe, and not just as a translator. I need you to be my advocate as well.

He opened his eyes. The cigarette butts were still on the ground, but the redness was gone from his vision. He looked up and squinted at the sun, which was descending toward the heights of Riverdale. It was past six o'clock. His ex-wife would be home by now, assuming that she still worked at St. Luke's Hospital and that her shift still ended at five. And Annabelle would be in her bedroom, probably doing her homework.

Joe stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. Then he walked out of the park, heading west toward Riverdale.

Where are you going?

“I'll do what you asked. I'll be your advocate. But I want to see my family now.”

That's not a good idea.

“Why not? I've stopped drinking. My suit's a little wrinkled, but it's still okay.”

I thought you wanted to rebuild your life before getting in touch with your family. Didn't you plan to find a residence, an apartment? And seek regular employment?

Joe kept walking. He turned left at the corner of 233rd Street and Broadway. “All that can wait. I need to see them.”

You should reconsider. You've had some traumatic experiences over the past few days. In your present state, you may not be able to handle the emotional upheaval.

“There won't be any upheaval. I'm just going to apologize to them. It's long overdue.”

I have access to your memories, Joe, including the memory of your last meeting with your ex-wife. It was a difficult confrontation. The chances are good that—

“Shut up, all right? Just shut the fuck up!”

Joe stopped in his tracks. A woman across the street stared at him, alarmed, but he didn't care. He was sick and tired of hiding. Starting right now, he was going to become visible again. He was going home.

“I know you can stop me,” he whispered. “You can take control of my muscles and keep me away. But if you do, I'll fight you. I'll never cooperate with you again.”

The Emissary was silent, this time for almost half a minute. Joe imagined the program reassessing its strategy, recalculating its options.

I won't stop you. Just prepare yourself. This won't be easy.

Joe resumed walking. He crossed Broadway at 232nd Street, passing underneath the elevated subway tracks. Then he headed for his old apartment building.

*   *   *

Sarah followed him, staying about sixty yards behind as he walked west on 232nd Street. She was being cautious, maybe a little overcautious. Joe looked straight ahead, never turning his gaze to the left or right. She could've probably walked three feet behind him and he still wouldn't have noticed her.

She'd been tailing him ever since he left Yankee Stadium. She took her eyes off him only once, for half an hour, while he napped on a park bench. She'd used the time to run to a nearby convenience store, where she'd bought a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a disposable cell phone. (Hanson had confiscated her iPhone when he'd arrested her, but luckily he hadn't taken her wallet.) Then she'd called Tom Gilbert, who'd already flown back to Washington and met with the National Security Council. He'd told her about the positive response to the truce offer but warned her that it wasn't a done deal yet. They might need Joe's help to conduct further negotiations with the Emissary, so Tom urged her to keep tracking him. He offered to send federal agents to assist her, but Sarah said no. She didn't want to risk angering the Emissary.