The Orion Plan

by Mark Alpert

  I’m not a living thing. I’m a set of instructions and algorithms. But I have all the abilities you have. I can think and reason and make plans. I can adapt to new circumstances.

  Now he was even more confused. “You’re a computer program?”

  Yes, but I’m unlike the programs you’re thinking of. Imagine that the soul of the programmer has been transferred to the machine. I am the soul of the intelligent life-forms who created me.

  “But how did you get inside my head? The last time I checked, I didn’t have any circuits in there.”

  You should check again.

  Now the spacecraft disappeared and in its place Joe saw a man in filthy clothes kneeling on a stone slab that glowed silver in the moonlight. The man opened his mouth and twisted in pain as he pressed his right hand to a puncture wound on his neck. Joe realized he was looking at an image of himself from two nights ago, when the probe’s tentacle struck him. After a moment the man took his hand off his neck, and then the image enlarged, magnifying the site of the puncture wound. Joe could see the damaged skin cells and ruptured capillaries. Then the view shifted to a larger blood vessel nearby and he saw a tiny, black insectlike machine inside his carotid artery. Propelled by his pulsing blood, the device rushed toward his brain.

  Joe felt sick. He opened his eyes. The sun was closer to the horizon now, and the East River looked darker and dirtier. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered. “It’s brutal. You’re torturing me.”

  I’m sorry for the pain you’ve suffered. But as I told you last night, communication is my highest priority. I need to communicate with the appropriate authorities in your government, but my language and thought processes are so different from yours that it would be easy for misunderstandings to occur. I need a translator, a human who completely understands my thoughts. So I established a connection with you.

  He shook his head. He was astounded by the breadth and depth of his bad luck. “No, you made a mistake. You should get someone else. Someone who isn’t in jail, for starters.”

  Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. Your species has an unusual mental architecture, very different from the minds of my creators. Because of these differences, my devices have had trouble interacting with the other human subjects I’ve made contact with. I’ve been able to influence their behavior and take control of their motor functions, but you’re the only subject with whom I’ve established a strong connection.

  Joe’s throat clenched when she said “other human subjects.” She meant Dorothy and the teenage boy. And Joe wondered if there were more.

  “Have you tortured them too?”

  Please understand, the process of initiating contact with an intelligent species can be dangerous. I’m trying to accomplish this task in the least risky way. If I wanted to, I could take full control of your body and move you around like a puppet. I could send you to the White House or the Capitol and force you to speak my words to the authorities. But that would only increase their fear. They would see me as a slave master, a monster. That’s why I want a free and willing translator, someone who can communicate my needs to the authorities without terrifying them.

  “And what are your needs?”

  The Emissary didn’t answer right away. Joe waited several seconds while the program in his head decided what to tell him.

  I can’t give you that information yet. It’s meant for the authorities in your government. If I give you the information now, there’s a chance you might reveal it to the wrong people, either intentionally or by accident. I can’t risk that.

  Once again, Joe sensed she wasn’t telling the whole truth. She was leaving something out. He couldn’t trust her.

  “What if I said I wouldn’t help you? What would you do then?”

  You’re a rational man, Joe. Don’t you think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement? I know you want to be reunited with your wife and daughter. I can help you make that happen.

  He clenched and unclenched his hands. He was furious, outraged. This impostor, this piece of software, was trying to manipulate him! It had the nerve to use his family as a bargaining chip! Joe was so enraged he wanted to run headlong into the jail’s concrete wall. He wanted to smash open his skull and rip out the Emissary with his bare hands.

  But he didn’t throw himself at the wall. He didn’t even shout at her. Joe kept his anger in check because it wasn’t the only emotion he felt. Along with his fury, he couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of hope, like a butterfly flapping its wings inside his chest. He wanted so badly to see Annabelle, the real Annabelle. The feeling was so powerful he had to push it away. If he let it come too close it would break his heart.

  He stepped backward, away from the fence. “No, you’re wrong. You can’t help me.”

  Don’t underestimate my abilities. I’ve already helped you a great deal. Because I rebalanced your neurotransmitter system, your nerve cells no longer require alcohol to calm their activity. You’re not dependent on it anymore.

  Joe couldn’t argue with her on this point. She was right: he didn’t feel the need to get drunk. He was still an alcoholic—he’d always be an alcoholic—but he was no longer overwhelmed by the irresistible urge to down another bottle of Olde English 800. Now, just the thought of the stuff made him want to puke. He’d miraculously slipped free from the noose of addiction that had been tightening around his neck. But he felt no sense of pride from accomplishing this feat, because he hadn’t done any of the hard work himself. The Emissary had done it for him.

  You have the chance to live a normal life now. You can rejoin human society. And I can help you in so many ways, Joe. I can give you everything you’ll need to find your way home, back to your old life. Isn’t that what you want?

  She was trying to bribe him. It was that simple. And why shouldn’t he take the bribe? If she could actually deliver what she promised, why should he refuse it?

  But she couldn’t deliver. It was impossible. She was lying.

  Nothing is impossible for me. Look at what I’ve done so far, in just the past three days.

  “No, this is different.” Shaking his head, he took another step backward. He felt dizzy, as if he were teetering on the edge of something horrible. “This can’t be changed.”

  Turn around, Joe. I’m going to show you something else I’ve done.

  He had no idea what she meant, but he turned around anyway. On the other side of the exercise yard a pair of correction officers emerged from the entrance to cellblock D. They marched across the yard, two big black men in black uniforms. The inmates pacing beside the fence craned their necks to look at the guards, and even the prisoners playing basketball paused their games. The officers walked abreast of each other and very nearly in lockstep. By the time they were fifty feet away Joe realized they were heading straight for him.

  His pulse raced as they came closer. They were the biggest guards he’d seen at Rikers, a hundred times more intimidating than the gray-haired officer who’d led Joe to the shower room the night before. He guessed they were here to punish him, to finally give him the beating he’d managed to avoid so far.

  No, that’s not why they’re here. I arranged for them to come.

  “What? How could—”

  The communications network for this jail is remarkably primitive. It was a simple matter to infiltrate it.

  The guards halted a couple of yards away. The officer on the right glared at Joe. “Joseph Graham? You’re coming with us.” He pointed at the entrance to D block. “Get moving.”

  Bewildered, Joe started to cross the yard, with the pair of guards marching behind him. His confusion made him light-headed. He felt the eyes of all the other inmates on him as he stumbled across the asphalt.

  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, th
e 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—”