The Orion Plan (28 page)

Don't worry, Joe. You're in luck. You're about to be freed.

*   *   *

The correction officers escorted him across cellblock D and buzzed him through the security gate at the guard station. Then they marched down the corridor to the intake room, the same place where Joe had entered the jail the day before. The room was full of new arrivals, at least forty men who were busy stripping off their street clothes and changing into prison-issue shirts and sweatpants. The guards cleared a path through the crowd and led Joe into a smaller room, a windowless holding pen with blank white walls. The room was empty except for a plastic bag on the floor. The plastic was transparent, and inside the bag Joe could see his street clothes, his filthy T-shirt and jeans, still caked with mud. No one had bothered to wash them.

One of the guards turned to Joe and pointed at the bag. “You have five minutes to change. Make sure you fold your jailhouse clothes and put them in the bag when you're done.”

The instructions were simple enough, but Joe was confused. “And then I can leave? I'm being released?”

The guard scowled. “Yeah, you're a lucky motherfucker. Someone pulled some big-ass strings for you.”

Shaking his head, the guard turned around and left the holding pen. His partner followed him out and closed the door, leaving Joe alone in the room.

Do you believe me now?

Although it didn't sound like Annabelle anymore, the voice of the Emissary was still disturbing. It was too breathy and feminine, too intimate. “How did you do it?” Joe whispered.

First, I accessed the underground cables that carry data across this city. Then I wrote software that enabled me to monitor and control all the data transmissions, including the electronic messages exchanged within the City of New York Department of Correction.

“You can see their e-mails? On the Internet?”

Yes, and I can compose my own communications. An hour ago I sent a message to the warden of the Otis Bantum Correctional Center. It was an order to free you, and it was intended to resemble a genuine order from the warden's supervisor, the deputy commissioner of correction.

Joe stepped backward and leaned against one of the room's blank walls. It was alarming, this evidence of the Emissary's power. He remembered the last time he'd seen the black sphere in Inwood Hill Park, when he'd tried to pry the thing out of the mud but had to give up because its gleaming tentacles had anchored it to the ground. Now, though, the tentacles had reached far beyond the park's boundaries. The alien program was spreading across the Internet. And what had it done to Dorothy? How many other people had it infected?

He shivered and stared at the floor. He was worried and scared. But at the same time he felt that flutter of hope again, the flapping of delicate wings inside his chest. The Emissary was going to get him out of Rikers. It was about to rescue him from the deepest hellhole he'd ever seen. And if it could do that, was it so far-fetched to believe that it could also reunite him with Karen and Annabelle?

Joe stared at the bag of filthy clothes on the floor. “Is one e-mail enough to get me out of here? Doesn't the warden need some official paperwork or something?”

In my message the deputy commissioner ordered the warden to release you immediately. In all likelihood, no one will discover that the message is spurious until a few hours from now, and by then you'll be free.

“But what if they discover it sooner than that? What if the warden or someone else does some checking around?”

Yes, that's a possibility. To guard against it, I recommend that you change into your old clothes as quickly as possible and get ready to leave.

Joe didn't need any further encouragement. He took off his prison clothes, then reached for the bag and ripped it open. He recoiled in disgust as he pulled out his damp, frayed T-shirt, which smelled like a swamp and was probably crawling with fleas. But after a moment he gritted his teeth and slipped the shirt over his head. Anything was better than Rikers.

After another minute Joe was back in his street clothes, and the prison-issue items were neatly folded in the bag. Then he leaned against the wall again and waited. There wasn't anything in the holding pen to look at except the locked door, so that's what he looked at.

I understand why you dislike this place. It's a very inefficient system.

Joe cringed. He didn't want to communicate with the Emissary any more than he had to, but he couldn't ignore her voice. “What system?” he whispered.

Your correctional system, all the jails and prisons. It's wasteful and self-defeating. Your society has no effective method for rehabilitating its criminals.

Her tone was so critical, it made Joe defensive. He shook his head. “Well, it's not so easy, getting people to change their ways.”

Does spending time in this jail improve the behavior of the criminals? Does it transform them into productive, law-abiding citizens?

“Not always, but—”

I've already collected information on this topic by accessing several Web sites on your Internet. According to the statistics, very few criminals benefit from the experience of incarceration. The primary purpose of your correctional system seems to be isolation rather than correction. The prisons keep dangerous individuals away from their communities until they're too old and debilitated to commit any more crimes.

Joe didn't know what to say. He was surprised that the Emissary had taken such an interest in the subject. Her voice was crisp and precise, like the voice of a professor.

Would you like to see a different approach to the problem, Joe? I can show you the solution that was devised on my home planet. Our society developed a successful method for dealing with individuals who refused to follow our laws.

She was trying to make him curious, but instead she frightened him. He didn't want to know anything else about her home planet or her society. He was still trying to digest everything she'd told him already. He just wanted her to get out of his head, or at least shut up for a few goddamn minutes.

“No, thanks,” he whispered.

Very well. Perhaps we can discuss this later, when you're less anxious.

The Emissary fell silent. Joe went back to staring at the locked door.

He relaxed a bit as the minutes passed and he heard nothing more from her. But after a while he started to worry again, because the correction officers were taking too long. The guards had said they'd return in five minutes, but that was at least fifteen minutes ago. Although there was no clock in the room, Joe could feel the time stretching. Soon it was thirty minutes. Then forty-five.

Then the door finally opened and a guard stepped inside, but it wasn't one of the correction officers who'd escorted Joe out of the exercise yard. It was his nemesis from last night, Officer Billings. The heavyset guard closed the door behind him and strolled into the holding pen with a big smile underneath his graying mustache. In his right hand he held a folded sheet of paper, which he pointed at Joe. “I gotta give you some fucking credit, Graham. You nearly pulled it off.”

Joe winced. The guard's voice was too loud—the room was empty except for the two of them—and his face was ruddy with delight. He seemed just as pleased now as he'd been when he'd delivered Joe to the shower room. Without waiting for a response, Billings unfolded the sheet and started to read it.

“It says here, ‘To Warden Hayes: The Police Department has requested the immediate release of Joseph Graham, inmate number 21-4662-38, who was remanded yesterday to Otis Bantum Correctional Center. Graham is a confidential informant assisting detectives in an ongoing investigation of narcotics sales in the Thirty-fourth Precinct. To ensure the success of this investigation, Graham must return to Inwood as quickly as possible so he can continue to assist the narcotics squad.'” Billings looked up from the paper and stared at Joe. “So far, so good, right? It sounds just like a real request from the NYPD, doesn't it? And the message came from the e-mail account of Deputy Commissioner Maloney, so why would anyone question it?”

Joe said nothing. He put a blank expression on his face, pretending to be puzzled. But Officer Billings wasn't fooled. He waved the paper in the air.

“The warden thought the order was real. So did everyone else in the main office. But I'd already started asking questions about you because of what happened last night in the shower room. So when I heard about Maloney's order, I knew it was bullshit.” He took a step toward Joe. “You were arrested for assaulting a cop. Once you do something like that, it doesn't matter if you're an informant. You gotta fucking
pay
for what you did. Every cop knows that. So there's no way they would've requested your release.”

Interesting. I hadn't expected this. Because the guard dislikes you so much, he became suspicious.

The Emissary's voice remained calm. She didn't seem to be troubled by the collapse of her plan. Joe, in contrast, was
very
troubled. Beads of sweat slid down his neck. Getting out of Rikers was the most important thing in the world to him now, and the thought of losing his chance was crushing.

Billings seemed to sense Joe's desperation. He smiled again. “I know a secretary who works for Deputy Commissioner Maloney, so I called her up and asked about the e-mail. She couldn't contact Maloney because he'd already left the office, but she called me back a few minutes ago and said she thinks the message is a fraud. Although it came from Maloney's e-mail address, she doesn't think the deputy commissioner wrote it. She thinks some hacker must've broken into the department's computer network.” He took another step toward Joe and looked him in the eye. “You know any hackers, Graham? Maybe some computer-geek asshole who owes you a favor? I have a funny feeling you do.”

Joe shook his head. It looked like the battle was already lost, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. “I don't know what you're talking about. The other guards said they were gonna release me. That's all I know.”

Billings let out a snort. He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pants pocket. Then he reached for his nightstick and removed it from his belt. “Well, I have some bad fucking news for you. You're not leaving Rikers anytime soon. As soon as I tell the warden about the scam you tried to pull, he's gonna make sure you stay here for a long, long time.” He raised the nightstick and pointed it at Joe's chest. “In fact, you'll still be here when Curtis and Daryl get back from the hospital. From what I hear, you got lucky when you tangled with them last night, but next time you won't—”

Joe lunged forward. His legs flexed at the Emissary's command, propelling him toward Billings, and at the same time he reached for the guard's nightstick. It happened so quickly that Joe didn't even realize what was happening until he stood nose-to-nose with Billings. Joe's left hand gripped the blunt end of the nightstick and his right hand clamped over the guard's mouth. Because the Emissary had taken full control of his body, he felt like a bystander. He could only stare into the guard's terrified eyes and wonder what the Emissary was going to do next. Strangle Billings? Break his neck? Club him with the nightstick?

But she did none of those things. Instead, Joe felt a horribly sharp pain in the palm of his right hand. At first he thought Billings had bitten him, but the guard's mouth was closed. Billings tried to pull his face away, but Joe dug his thumb and fingers into the guard's cheeks and held on tight, pressing his burning palm against the man's lips. Then Joe felt something rip through his skin. Something tiny and jagged emerged from the center of his palm and pierced the guard's upper lip.

Billings widened his eyes and screamed. Joe's palm muffled the noise, but it was still loud enough to make his hand vibrate. The guard's head shook uncontrollably and the rest of his body writhed in pain. And then, after five or six seconds, Billings closed his eyes. He went limp but stayed on his feet, standing there with his head lolling to the side and his arms dangling. He looked drunk, in a stupor, but he still clutched his nightstick.

After a few more seconds Joe regained control of his own body and stepped away from the guard. When he raised his right hand he saw a small wound in the center of his palm. There was a similar wound on Billings's upper lip, half-hidden by his mustache. Joe thought of the picture the Emissary had shown him, the image of the black insectlike machine cruising through his blood vessels toward his brain. Now it was inside Billings.

Actually, the device inside him is a copy of the one inside you.

“What? A copy?”

All of my machines are self-replicating. They build copies of themselves from the raw materials in their surrounding environment. The device inside you assembled duplicates from the molecules in your bloodstream, and one of those duplicates is now inside the guard, interfacing with his brain. And because all my devices are networked together via radio and microwave transmissions, I can communicate with you and him at the same time.

Joe's throat tightened. He stared at the half-asleep Billings, whose mouth hung open as he swayed in the middle of the room. “And you can control him too? Just like you control me?”

No, my interface with the guard is more primitive. Because I don't have time to develop a full connection with him, I've shut down his consciousness. I will simply control his muscles and voice box.

“So he's nothing but a puppet now?”

Why are you so disapproving? You need the guard's help to escape from this jail. Isn't that what you want?

Joe grimaced. He knew he was making a mistake. Instead of siding with the Emissary, he should be resisting her with all his strength. But she was right: he wanted to get out of Rikers. He wanted it so badly he was willing to trust her.