The Orion Plan (35 page)

“Yeah, I could use a wash,” he admitted. “And a change of clothes.”

Look to your right. Do you see the restaurant on the other side of 161st Street? The one called McDonald's?

He spotted it. The place was open, but he knew how difficult it was for a homeless person to wash up in a McDonald's restroom. He shook his head again. “The bathroom will be locked and they won't give me the key.”

It's not locked. I've readied it for you.

Joe felt uneasy. He remembered last night's escape, how the gleaming tentacle had pulled him across the river and then retreated into the mud of the South Bronx. The Emissary wasn't just inside him anymore—she was all over the city, her black fingers exploring the underside of every street and sidewalk, every apartment building and store. Even the McDonald's.

Come on, Joe. You'll feel much better once you're clean.

He was too tired to argue. He walked to the corner and crossed 161st Street.

As he stepped into the restaurant he saw two women in red and yellow uniforms behind the counter. They automatically turned their heads and eyed him suspiciously. Like all fast-food workers in the city, they'd been trained to keep a lookout for undesirables. Joe's reaction was just as automatic: he avoided their stares and headed straight for the men's room.

The bathroom door had a lock, but it opened when he turned the knob. Curious, he looked at the latch and saw that the locking mechanism had been crimped. Then, as the door closed behind him, he heard a crunch in the tile floor near his feet. The tiles cracked and a five-inch-tall black spike rose from the floor. The Emissary had provided a doorstop. Now no one else could come into the bathroom.

Look at the floor in the left corner, next to the sink. The tiles there are loose.

Sure enough, when Joe bent over he was able to pry the tiles from the floor. Underneath them, tucked into a dank hole about the size of a suitcase, was a large, heavy shopping bag. He ripped the bag open and was astonished to see a suit inside: navy blue pants and jacket, plus a white shirt, a striped tie, black shoes, and a pair of socks. There was also a smaller bag containing a razor and a can of shaving cream.

“Jesus,” he whispered. It was worse than he'd thought. How had the Emissary collected all these things? How many stores had she broken into?

There's no time to explain. You need to move quickly, because someone else will want to use the restroom sooner or later.

Still dumbfounded, Joe took off his filthy clothes and threw them into the corner. He stood by the sink and washed off the East River stink, scrubbing his armpits and crotch. Then he lathered his face and shaved off his grubby beard. Finally, he put on the shirt and socks and suit. Everything was brand-new and fit him perfectly. The patent-leather shoes were polished so well, he could see his reflection in them.

Joe looked in the mirror as he knotted the tie around his neck. The Emissary had been right—he
did
feel better. He stared at himself in the mirror, carefully studying his face. This was Dr. Joseph Graham of the Department of Surgery at St. Luke's Hospital. The man had been gone for so long, Joe barely recognized him.

There was a sudden banging on the restroom door. “Hey! This is the manager! What's going on in there?” It was a man's voice, loud and threatening. He put a key in the lock and tried to come inside, but the doorstop was in the way. “Yo, asshole! I know you're in there! What the fuck did you do to the door?”

Joe quickly grabbed his old clothes, stuffed them into the dank hole, and covered it with the cracked tiles. Then, just as he turned around, the doorstop sank into the floor. The manager banged on the door again and this time it burst open and the guy stumbled inside.

He was a big man wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt. He gazed at Joe for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he put an apologetic look on his face. “Oh, I'm so sorry, sir! I thought … I mean, the girls said they saw a…”

Joe's heart pounded. It took him a while to realize he didn't need to be afraid. “Uh, yeah, it's my fault. I was taking too long to—”

“No, no, sir! Take as long as you want! I'm very sorry about this!” His face reddening, the manager retreated and closed the door.

It's like magic, Joe thought. All it took was a suit and a shave.

I have something else for you. Check the right-hand pocket of the jacket.

Joe reached into the pocket and pulled out a roll of twenty-dollar bills.

Get yourself some breakfast. You still have forty-three minutes until the meeting.

He stared for a while at the money in his hand. It was at least five hundred dollars. Then he left the bathroom, went to the counter and ordered a large coffee and three Egg McMuffins. The counterwoman—who'd eyed him so suspiciously fifteen minutes ago—smiled and told him to have a great day.

As he sipped his coffee he thought about what the Emissary had promised. He imagined returning to his home and job and family. Going back to his old life would be a bigger challenge than simply putting on a new set of clothes. It wouldn't be enough to look good and have some money in his pocket. He'd have to convince Karen that she could trust him, and that wouldn't be easy. He'd broken so many promises.

And Annabelle? That was the biggest challenge of all. Would she even want to see him again? Could she ever forgive him?

She could, Joe. I could make her understand. Nothing is impossible for me.

Yes,
he thought.
It's possible.

He believed it.

*   *   *

Half an hour later Joe approached Yankee Stadium. At 7:00
A.M.
the sidewalks around it were deserted. The place looked bereft without the usual swarming crowds. An empty Cheetos bag fluttered down the street.

The Emissary guided him past the stadium's main entrances, which were now locked tight. He passed the shuttered ticket office too and the stadium's press gate. He kept going until he reached the corporate entrance, the one that led to the offices of the baseball team's owners and management.

As Joe neared the glass doors he saw something moving in the darkness behind them. A man in a security guard's uniform appeared behind one of the doors and unlocked it. The man looked young, a little too young to be a security guard, actually. The uniform hung loosely on his slender frame. He held the door open for Joe and beckoned to him. “Over here, amigo,” he called. “I've been waiting for you.”

Joe stepped inside. He looked a little closer at the kid and recognized him. This was one of the teenagers from Inwood Hill Park. Not the leader of the gang, and not the one who'd kicked Joe in the ribs. He was the joker, the one with the braying laugh.

That's correct. His name is Carlos.

The kid closed the door and locked it. Then he turned around and pointed at Joe. “Damn, what happened to you, bro? You look a lot better than you did in the park. Where'd you get that suit?”

Joe knew he shouldn't be surprised to see the kid here. The Emissary had infected the leader of the gang, and he in turn could've infected all his friends. Still, it was disturbing. Joe wondered how much the teenager knew. “I got the suit from the Emissary. You know who that is?”

Carlos shook his head. “No idea. But it doesn't matter.” Grinning, he turned to the right and headed down a long, carpeted corridor. “Follow me. It's dark in here, so you better watch where you're going. You don't want to trip over that big dude there.”

Joe looked ahead and saw a figure lying faceup on the floor, either dead or unconscious. It was a large, dark-skinned man stripped to his underwear. Carlos stepped over him and continued down the corridor, but Joe stopped and stared until he saw the man's chest rise and heard him breathing.

He's one of the stadium's security guards. I sedated him and nine of his coworkers so we could make use of this facility.

A tentacle tethered the unconscious man to the floor. The gleaming wire stretched from a hole in the carpet and curled around the man's waist. Its tapered point was embedded in the bare skin above his hip.

“Christ.” Joe's throat tightened. “What are you doing to him?”

You don't have to worry about his well-being. The sedation is temporary and won't damage him in any way.

Joe carefully stepped around the guard. Then he pointed at Carlos, who was several yards ahead. “What about
his
well-being? I notice you've done something to his right hand.”

That's also temporary. My devices allow me to influence his behavior, but I can't communicate with Carlos as directly as I can with you. As I've mentioned before, it's difficult to establish robust links with your species.

“But the kid's following your orders.”

That's only because I'm giving Carlos something he wants. He and his friends want to be strong and free and respected. I'm helping them accomplish their goals, and in return they give me their allegiance. I can't force them to do anything against their will.

Joe thought it over, trying to figure out if the Emissary was telling the truth. He found it hard to believe that the teenager had willingly agreed to have that shiny circle stamped into his palm. But he knew from his own experience that the Emissary could be very persuasive. Her microscopic devices searched the nooks and crannies of your brain until they discovered your strongest desires. Then you became her accomplice.

Joe continued walking down the corridor with Carlos until they reached a stairway. As they descended the steps Joe expected to see a grimy basement full of equipment for the stadium, but instead they came to a pair of imposing wooden doors. Carlos pushed the doors open and turned on the lights. They were in the New York Yankees locker room.

It was a lot bigger and fancier than any locker room Joe had ever seen. The floor was covered with plush blue carpet emblazoned with the Yankees logo. In the center of the room were leather couches and easy chairs. The lockers ran along the walls, but they weren't really lockers in the traditional sense—they were richly appointed alcoves with cabinets and closets and computer screens for each player. The uniforms hung on the closet rods and the Yankee caps sat on the shelves. It was the kind of place Joe had always dreamed of visiting, and he assumed that Carlos would stop for at least a few seconds to look at the hanging uniforms. But the kid walked right past them and headed for the doors at the other end of the room.

They passed a row of batting cages and a big rack holding dozens of baseball bats. Then they banged through another pair of doors and marched down yet another corridor. This one had a blue sign overhead displaying a quote from Joe DiMaggio: “I want to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee.” At the end of the corridor Carlos climbed a short flight of steps. Joe followed him up the steps and then found himself on the baseball field. The Yankees dugout was to his right, and home plate was a few yards ahead.

While Carlos stood in front of the dugout, Joe stepped toward the circle of dirt surrounding home plate. Turning around, he stared at the empty stands, the fifty thousand seats arranged in curving tiers. Now he realized why the Emissary had chosen this place for the meeting. The stands would hide them from anyone outside the stadium. Unless you were in an airplane flying over the Bronx, you couldn't see the field.

Now I will make the final preparations. When I'm done, even the airline passengers won't be able to see you.

“What do you mean? How—”

Three black tentacles suddenly erupted from the dirt near home plate. They rose straight up into the air, then arced across the field, one tentacle stretching toward first base, one toward second, and one toward third. After reaching a height of about forty feet the tentacles descended toward the bases and dove into the neatly raked dirt, creating arches that soared over the base lines and the pitcher's mound. A moment later, broad sheets of metallic fiber spread from one arch to another, draping a black canopy over the entire infield. It looked like a tent at first, but then it changed shape. The arches lowered until they touched the base lines on the ground and the top of the canopy became a glistening black dome.

The structure wavered for an instant, shimmering like a mirage. Then it vanished.

Carlos stepped backward and muttered, “
Coño!
” Joe was just as surprised.

I've added a coating of plasmonic material to its surface. This material scatters the light rays that strike it, causing them to bend around the structure.

“So the thing is still there, but it's invisible?”

Yes. You can't see it from the outside. And if you stand inside the structure, it will shield you from view.

Skeptical, Joe walked toward the first-base line. As he came within a yard of the base path, a black rectangle the size of a doorway appeared in front of him. Steeling himself, he closed his eyes and stepped through it. When he opened his eyes he couldn't see the stadium anymore. He could see the infield and the pitcher's mound, but everything beyond the base paths was black. There was a faint glow coming from above, though. When he looked up he saw the underside of a huge black dome, dotted with stars.

It was frightening, but also magical. Joe felt as if he'd stepped into a secret cave, a hole in reality. The stars above him were arranged in unfamiliar patterns. He tilted his head back and marveled.

The Emissary was patient. She gave Joe a few seconds to be alone with his thoughts. Then she spoke.

The government officials are approaching the stadium. Before they arrive I want to reveal my information to you, all the details of my mission and the requests I'm going to make. You should know this information in advance, so you can effectively communicate my needs to the officials. But because we don't have much time, I'm going to download all the data to your memory in one burst. You may find the experience a little disorienting.