The Orion Plan (44 page)

She sat in the rear of the train car. Joe sat near the front, ten rows ahead. For the past five hours she'd stared at the back of his head and his unkempt hair. When Sarah had boarded the train at the Yonkers station and followed him into the car, she'd felt certain that sooner or later he'd turn around and notice her. But in all that time he'd hardly moved.

Maybe he was asleep. He definitely had reason to be tired. After leaving the apartment building in the Bronx yesterday, he'd sprinted for miles, running right out of the city and into the suburbs of Westchester County. He got so far ahead of Sarah that she almost lost him, but after a while he slowed down and turned to the west. He jogged past houses and gas stations and supermarkets until he reached the Hudson River. Then he staggered into a waterfront park, sat down on a bench, and started weeping.

He spent the whole night there. Every hour or so, he pulled the liquor bottle out of his jacket, but he never once took a drink, at least as far as Sarah could tell. She watched him from the parking lot, about fifty yards away, convinced that at any moment he was going to jump into the river and let the current take him under. But when dawn finally came he got up from the bench and started walking north, following the train tracks that paralleled the Hudson. He went into the Yonkers station and bought a ticket. (Sarah, standing a few yards behind him, noticed he used cash.) And when the 7:44
A.M.
train to Buffalo arrived, he got on board.

Sarah napped a little in her seat, always waking up before each stop just in case Joe got off the train. But he didn't get off at Poughkeepsie or Albany or Utica. She was starting to think that maybe he wouldn't get off at Buffalo either. He could stay on this train and go all the way west to Denver or San Francisco. Sarah sensed he was trying to run as far as he could from whatever he'd seen in that apartment building.

Luckily, Sarah could use her credit card to buy sandwiches in the train's lounge car, and she could use her disposable cell phone to stay in touch with Tom. In their last phone call he'd said a team of officials had gone to New York to negotiate with the Emissary. They apparently didn't trust Joe to be their translator, and Tom said there was no need to follow him anymore. But Sarah was determined to keep at it. The man was unique, a link to another world. It was certainly worth a few hundred dollars to see where he went.

She looked out the window again. They were passing warehouses and truck depots now, maybe twenty miles from Syracuse. Sarah remembered the city from her grad-school days; its train station was the closest one to Cornell, and she'd often traveled by train back then because it was cheaper than flying. In recent years she'd gone back to Cornell a few times, mostly because the school's astronomy department managed the Arecibo radio dish in Puerto Rico. Arecibo's giant antenna could send powerful radar pulses into space, and Sarah sometimes used it to track asteroids and comets that came close to Earth. She enjoyed working with the astronomers at Cornell, but the visits were always bittersweet. They reminded Sarah of how hopeful she'd once been.

She was still thinking about her grad-school days when she heard shouts coming from the front of the train car. Turning away from the window, she saw Joe standing in the aisle and swinging the liquor bottle through the air.

“No! Get out!
Get out of my head!
”

His face was flushed and sweaty and crazed. He turned his head this way and that, his eyes tracking something only he could see. He bounded down the aisle, chasing the invisible thing, and swiped the bottle at it. An old woman sitting nearby let out a scream. Another passenger dashed down the aisle in the other direction and called for help.

Sarah sat up straight, her adrenaline surging. She had to do something. Once the train conductors showed up, they'd either toss Joe off at the next stop or arrest him. She jumped out of her seat.

“What's going on, Joe?”

For a second he just looked at her, uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened and he rushed toward her. “Dr. Pooley! It's the Emissary! I have to get her out!”

“Okay, calm down. You—”

“She won't let me think!” He gesticulated wildly, waving the bottle like a club. “She keeps saying, ‘Go back, go back to Manhattan!'”

“Listen to me, Joe. If you don't—”

“She's angry now. She can't take control of my muscles because her radio signal's weaker here, because we're so far from the city. And because she's losing control, I'm starting to
see
more.”

Before Sarah could respond, one of the train conductors entered the car and bustled down the aisle. He was a fat, bearded man in a blue uniform, with a radio hanging from his belt. Frowning, he pointed at Joe. “Hey you! Put down that bottle!”

Joe spun around, and his face turned pale. He lowered the liquor bottle and tried to hide it inside his jacket. “I … I didn't…”

“Drinking alcohol is prohibited in this car. Have you been drinking, sir?”

“No … no, I…” Joe shook his head, unable to continue. He looked terrified.

Sarah's heart went out to him. He'd clearly had some bad experiences with men wearing uniforms. And in this case, he was innocent: the liquor bottle was nearly full, and so far she hadn't seen him take a slug from it.

She leaned toward Joe, grasped the bottle under his jacket, and pulled it away from him. Then she turned to the conductor. “I'm so sorry about this. We're on our way to a rehab clinic, but my husband sneaked a little something in his suitcase. I took my eyes off him for a minute, and then this happened.”

The conductor stared at her, still frowning. Sarah gave him an earnest, pleading look, the look of a long-suffering wife trying to do the right thing. And after a few seconds, it worked. The conductor stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Ma'am, you have to watch him. He can't go running around the train.”

Sarah nodded. “I'll take him to the bathroom. He'll be all right, I promise.”

She shifted the bottle to her left hand and wrapped her right arm around Joe's waist. Then she steered him down the aisle, away from the conductor. Together, they lurched toward the bathroom at the end of the car. Sarah opened the door and noticed that the space was uncomfortably small. But she dragged Joe inside anyway and latched the door behind them.

The toilet's lid was closed. Joe sat down on it with a thump, while Sarah put the bottle in the stainless-steel sink. Fortunately, the bathroom had no window, and the door was a thick sheet of aluminum. They were surrounded by metal.

She bent over and patted Joe's shoulder. “Okay, you should feel better now. The Emissary's signals can't get through.”

He looked down at the bathroom's floor, staring intently. Then he nodded. “You're right. I don't hear her.”

“What did you mean when you said you're
seeing
more? More of what?”

He raised his head. The lines on his face seemed deeper in the fluorescent light. “The Emissary put information in my head before our meeting at the stadium. But I couldn't see some of the things she put there. Because they're plans, I think. Plans for the future that she didn't want to reveal yet.”

“And you can see those plans now?”

“Not all of them. But I'm getting glimpses. Especially after … in the last few hours.” Joe clenched and unclenched his hands. “I saw a map of New York City, and there were lines coming out of Manhattan. They went in all directions, to Long Island and New England and New Jersey. Some of them went all the way out to the Atlantic Ocean.”

“You think those lines stand for the black cables?”

“Yeah, the tentacles. It's happening right now, they're spreading fast. And some of them are moving northwest. They're coming this way.”

Sarah bit her lip. She believed him. And if Joe was telling the truth, it was very bad news. It meant the Emissary had broken its promise to stop spreading its machinery. “But why are the cables extending so far? Are they tapping into more power grids? Getting ready to attack us?”

“I don't know. But maybe I can find out. Maybe the answer's already in my head.”

Joe looked down at the floor again and closed his eyes. He shut them so tightly his jaw quivered. He leaned all the way forward, and for a second it looked like he was going to tumble off the toilet. Then he muttered, “Fuck!” and stamped his foot on the floor.

“I can't do it.” He opened his eyes but kept his head down. “I can't see anything else.”

“Why not? The Emissary's not interfering anymore, right?”

“But her devices are still in my brain. I think she programmed them to block my thoughts and lock up the information, even when she's out of range.”

Sarah frowned. She didn't know what to do. She felt like she should warn somebody—Tom, the White House, the military—but what would she tell them? That Joe Graham the homeless guy believed the Emissary was deceiving them? And the evidence was a map he saw in his head? Would anyone at the White House take it seriously, even for a second?

Ah, screw it,
she thought. She decided to call Tom anyway. But before she could reach into her pocket for the disposable phone, Joe looked up at her.

“There's another way to see the plans,” he whispered. “But so far I've been afraid to try it.”

She leaned closer. “How?”

“I've known about it all along, ever since I left the city. That's why I hung on to the whisky all this time.” He stretched his hand toward the sink and grabbed the liquor bottle. “I need to get drunk.”

“Huh? Are you kidding? What good will that do?”

He took the bottle out of the sink. The label had a picture of a rearing horse. “Alcohol messes up the devices. It prevents them from connecting to my brain. That's why the Emissary made me stop drinking. She changed my biochemistry so booze would disgust me.”

Sarah stared at Joe's head, trying to picture it. Although she was no expert in neuroscience, she knew the brain was highly sensitive to certain chemicals. “So you think alcohol will stop the nanodevices from blocking your thoughts? And you'll be able to see the hidden information?”

“That's right.” He twisted off the bottle's cap and grimaced. Holding it at arm's length, he thrust the bottle at Sarah. “But I need your help with this. I can't do it by myself.”

“Whoa, wait a minute.” She pulled her hands back, refusing to take the bottle. “What do you want me to do? Pour the stuff down your throat?”

He nodded. “Please. Help me.” His voice cracked. “I have to know what's in my head.”

Sarah felt queasy. The idea of pouring whisky down a drunk's throat was repellent to her. It was like handing a loaded gun to someone contemplating suicide. But what choice did they have? They needed to learn the Emissary's plans. Everything depended on it.

She grabbed the lapels of Joe's jacket and flipped them over his shoulders. That would restrain his arms. Then she took the bottle from him. “Okay, lean back.”

*   *   *

For the first time in Joe's life, getting drunk was a struggle. He gagged as Sarah brought the bottle to his lips and filled his mouth with the warm whisky. It was vile, nauseating, like liquid rot. He spluttered and choked, and half of it ran down his chin. He managed to swallow the rest, but an instant later he lunged for the sink and vomited it up.

So they tried again. This time he swallowed a little more and kept it down. The whisky roiled inside him, burning his stomach, but after a few seconds its warmth spread to the rest of his body. When Sarah brought the bottle to his lips for the third time, it didn't taste as foul. Joe took a long pull, swallowing at least a couple of ounces. After that, he didn't need Sarah's help. He grabbed the bottle from her and tilted his head back.

It didn't take long for him to finish it off. By the end he didn't even notice the taste. In just five minutes he reversed all the bioengineering the Emissary had done to his brain.
It's a testament to the power of alcohol
, he thought. The stuff was stronger than any alien technology.

The worst part was, he felt good. He felt
great
. The tiny, stinking train car bathroom had become the best damn place in the world. He closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to find a more comfortable position. The rocking of the train was gentle and slow. He could probably fall asleep now, right here on this toilet. He was so goddamn tired.

“Joe? Is it working?”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Sarah Pooley loomed over him, her breasts swaying under her T-shirt. Thanks to the information that the Emissary had collected from the Internet, Joe knew a lot about her; he'd seen her Cornell transcript, her NASA employment records, all her research papers about asteroids and meteorites. She was spectacularly brilliant, and she had a nice figure too. Her jeans clung to her hips, making a lovely curve.

“Hey!” She bent over and looked him in the eye. “You're drifting off, Joe. Try to concentrate, okay?”

He nodded. It was time to think. The machines in his mind were paralyzed, and he could see all the information the Emissary had given him. But there was so much damn stuff cluttering his head, it was hard to find what he wanted. Despite his best efforts, he kept thinking about Sarah. And then he thought about Karen, because she used to have a nice figure too. They'd had a good life for a while, no doubt about it. But then she had to go off with that asshole, that Craig fucking Williams. It was
his
fault, not Joe's. It was all his damn fault, everything that went wrong. If it wasn't for him, Joe would've never gotten so angry. And Annabelle would still be alive.

He stared at the floor again, the speckled beige linoleum. No, he
wasn't
going to think about that. Not now, not ever. With a tremendous effort of will, he pushed those memories aside. Then he focused as hard as he could on one of the images the Emissary had put in his brain, a picture of a planet with brown continents and blue oceans.