by Mark Alpert
Phil wagged a finger at her. “No, that’s not likely. If this probe really came from another star system it was probably launched hundreds of years ago, before humans even invented radio and TV.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just a matter of the odds.” He shrugged. “It’s highly unlikely that an intelligent species lives in a star system right next to ours. We don’t know how common life is in the galaxy, much less intelligent life, but I think it’s safe to say that the closest alien civilization is at least a hundred light-years away from us. So even if they have the technology to accelerate their spacecraft to velocities close to the speed of light, their probe would still take at least a hundred years to get here.”
“Okay, okay.” Sarah nodded, conceding the point. “The aliens didn’t necessarily know about the human race, but they knew there was life on Earth, and that fact alone was probably enough to encourage them to send a probe here to investigate. And I think it’s likely that they at least considered the possibility that there might be intelligent life on this planet. I think they put instructions in the probe’s computer program telling it what to do if it detected an intelligent species on Earth. That’s just prudent planning.”
Phil looked skeptical. “You’re taking a big leap here, but go on. Finish your thought.”
“So let’s say the probe’s approaching our solar system and its sensors have confirmed the presence of intelligent life on Earth. It would’ve detected our radio and television broadcasts by then and observed the lights of our cities. At that point the alien computer system—or artificial intelligence program or whatever—would need to change the probe’s mission. It could instruct the probe to make contact with the human race by radio, but that would be risky. We might feel threatened and try to destroy the alien spacecraft. But the program would have two other options. It could send the probe into a distant orbit around Earth, where it could hide from us but still observe us. Or the program could take the opposite tack and direct the probe to land on Earth and establish a foothold on the surface. If the alien machinery could sink its drills into the ground fast enough, they could spread far beneath the surface in a matter of days, digging so deeply we might never be able to dislodge them. Judging from the evidence, I think the program chose this second option.”
“But then why would it land in New York? If the program’s goal is to entrench the probe on Earth, wouldn’t it make more sense to send it to a remote location, where it would be harder for us to find and destroy it? Like in Antarctica or the Himalayas?”
“The highest priority for the program would be establishing the foothold very quickly, before the human race could react. Although those drills are remarkable devices, they need energy just like any other machine, and they couldn’t extend very far without a sizable power supply. If the probe landed in the Himalayas it could manufacture a few small solar panels at first and then gradually enlarge them, but the process would take months, and in the meantime it would be an easy target. So I think the program instructed the probe to draw power from the sources it had already observed—the electric grids that light our cities. The western hemisphere was in darkness as the probe approached Earth, and the brightest city in view was New York. The program chose a landing site in an unoccupied part of the city where it could take electricity from the grid and yet still remain hidden, at least for a while.”
Phil shook his head. He still looked unconvinced. “Your argument is very speculative, Sarah. You’re making so many guesses. I could come up with a hundred other theories that would explain the facts just as well.”
“There’s one fact I haven’t told you yet. When I saw the alien drill it was tapping a power line in a Con Edison manhole. It was conducting a thirteen-thousand-volt current through a cable thinner than my pinkie. I slashed at it with a fire ax, and that’s how I got my sample.”
This piece of news startled him, no doubt about it. The printout he’d been holding, the one that showed the alien lattice, slipped out of his hands. He automatically bent over and picked it up from the floor, but he didn’t look at it. He kept it at arm’s length, as if he were afraid of it now. “Where was this manhole? In Manhattan?”
“Yes, on Payson Avenue near 204th Street. A Con Edison inspector named Torelli saw the drill too, and afterwards he examined a dozen other manholes in the area. He called me this morning to tell me what he’d found. In seven of the manholes he saw similar drills tapping the high-voltage power lines.”
“And where were the other manholes? How widely separated were they?”
“They were all along the eastern edge of Inwood Hill Park, from Dyckman Street to 218th Street. That’s a spread of about three-quarters of a mile. But Torelli hasn’t inspected all the manholes in the neighborhood yet, so there could be more of them.”
“Jesus.”
It was a terrible thing, Sarah thought, to see fear in someone you cared about. Phil couldn’t handle it. He seemed to shrink in his chair, his chin lowered to his chest, his shoulders hunched, his gangly scarecrow arms drawn close to his body. It hurt her so much to see him this way that she ignored her own fear and put a businesslike expression on her face, trying to project a feeling of confidence and normalcy: We can take care of this, we can get it under control. She pointed at the printout in his hand. “Look, Phil, could you make two copies of those test results? Now that I have the proof, I need to show it to the general at Space Command. And I’m gonna put the other copy in a safe place. If the Air Force tries to bury the information, I’ll make sure the newspapers get it.”
Phil slowly raised the hand that held the printout. The page was crumpled because he was clutching it so tightly. “The probe’s mission might not be exploration, you know.” His voice quavered. “It might be colonization.”
Sarah nodded, struggling to keep that confident look on her face. “Yeah, that’s why I need to talk to Space Command. And I’m gonna call Tom Gilbert too. He’s the last person in the world I want to talk to, but he’s the chief science adviser at the White House now and—”
The door to Phil’s office suddenly swung open. Sarah turned toward it, alarmed, and saw a big man in a gray suit stride into the room. Without saying a word, he headed straight for Phil and lifted him out of his chair. Phil sputtered, “What? Who are you?” but the man paid no attention. He removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slipped them around Phil’s wrists.
At the same time, a second man entered the office. He also wore a gray suit, so it took Sarah an extra second to realize it was General Hanson, out of uniform.
“No need for you to make copies of the results.” Hanson glanced at Phil’s desk and the scanning microscope and the stack of printouts. “We have them.”
Sarah rose from her chair and took a step backward. “You heard what we were saying? You were listening to us?”
“You’re in enough trouble already, Dr. Pooley. If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut.”
SIXTEEN
It was 6:30 P.M., almost dinnertime, but the jail’s exercise yard was still as hot as an oven. The yard was about the size of a football field and covered with a layer of asphalt that had baked and blistered in the sun all day. Joe could feel its heat through the thin soles of his sneakers.
About two hundred inmates crowded the yard. A few dozen gathered around the basketball hoops, either playing ball or watching from the sidelines, but Joe and most of the other prisoners paced along the perimeter. Some walked briskly and others barely moved, but they all went counterclockwise. The blank gray walls of the Otis Bantum Correctional Center bordered three sides of the yard, and on the fourth side was a twenty-foot-high double-layer fence, with loops of razor wire trimming the top of the chain link. Through this fence Joe could see the perimeter road that ran along the shoreline of Rikers Island, and beyond that the foamy wavelets of the East River.
It was a seriously depressing view, but coming out here was better than staying in his cell. The past twenty-four hours had been
horrendous, worse than any of the cold, wet, nasty days Joe had spent in Inwood Hill Park. When he’d lived in the park at least he’d had the option of leaving. He could clamber out of his box and brush the dirt off his pants and wander the streets until he found someplace better, or until he was just too tired to care. But in jail he had no choice. He had to endure every misery.
He also had to endure the presence of a cellmate, even though Joe was the only prisoner in the cell. The impostor who’d stolen Annabelle’s voice was still locked inside him. She stood behind his every thought, watching and waiting. He’d tried to push her out of his mind by engaging in random pointless tasks—multiplying large numbers in his head, remembering the lyrics to old songs, staring intently at the hundreds of faint lines on his palms—but no strategy worked for more than a few minutes. Soon he would hear her voice again, calling him Daddy, asking him if he was ready to listen to her plan. And if he closed his eyes for more than a second he would see her too, dressed in her blue hospital gown, tied at the back. He hadn’t slept at all since lights-out the night before, because he knew Annabelle would romp through his dreams.
It became easier to keep her at bay, though, after he went outside to the exercise yard. Just looking at the hazy sky made him feel a little stronger. And the yard wasn’t nearly as dangerous as Joe had feared. The other inmates kept their distance from him as they paced alongside the fence. Some of the black and Latino prisoners even nodded at him in a respectful way, as if they were silently thanking him. At first this puzzled the hell out of Joe, but then he realized that the news of his fight with Curtis and Daryl had spread across the jail. Not surprisingly, many of the inmates were pleased that he’d thrashed those assholes. According to the rumors he’d overheard in the cellblock, both men were now in the intensive care unit of a hospital in Queens.
Joe slowed as he approached the corner where the fence adjoined the gray concrete wall of cellblock D. From here he could get a good view of the barges cruising down the East River. Rikers Island sat in the middle of the river, halfway between the Bronx and Queens. There was a bridge between Rikers and Queens, but that was on the southern end of the island, where the jails for women and juveniles were. The Otis Bantum Correctional Center was on the northern end, the side that faced the South Bronx. Joe could see the shoreline on the other side of the river, and beyond it he glimpsed the Bronx’s highways and housing projects. He recognized the Bruckner Expressway and the Triborough Bridge. But he couldn’t see his old apartment building in Riverdale. Although it was the tallest building in its neighborhood, it was all the way on the other side of the Bronx, almost ten miles away.
He stepped as close as possible to the fence and gazed through the chain link at the housing projects across the river. The brick buildings glowed orange as the sun sank toward the horizon. Joe wondered if his ex-wife had come home from work yet. As far as he knew, she still had the same job, working as an emergency-room nurse at St. Luke’s. Back in the old days they used to meet for lunch in the hospital cafeteria, taking a few minutes each day to drink bad coffee together and coordinate their schedules. They’d both been so overworked, so frenzied. Under the circumstances, it was really a miracle they’d lasted as long as they had.
You miss her, don’t you?
His daughter’s voice was quiet and sad, but it hit him like a slap in the face. Joe looked down at the hot asphalt at his feet and felt a black, burning rage surge through him.
“Get out of my head!” he shouted. “Just get out!”
The inmates in that corner of the yard backed away from him. No one laughed. They all knew what he could do.
I told you, Daddy, you don’t have to speak out loud when you talk to me.
“Get out, get out!” He was screaming now, his voice echoing against the jail’s concrete wall. “If you don’t get out, I’ll kill myself!”
You don’t really mean that. And even if you did, I could stop you. You need to relax, Daddy. Take a deep breath.
Against his will, the muscles in his chest expanded. He took in a great gulp of air and then at Annabelle’s command his muscles relaxed, pushing the breath out of him. She forced him to take three more deep breaths before relinquishing control, and by then Joe was crying. He was powerless. The impostor could do anything she wanted with him.
He bent over double and sobbed, his hands on his knees. Half the inmates in the yard stopped to gawk at him, but after several seconds most of them resumed their pacing. He was just having a breakdown, that’s all. Nothing unusual about that.
Why are you reacting this way? I’ve helped you, haven’t I? Didn’t I save you from those men in the shower room?
Joe didn’t want to talk to her. He tried to empty his mind, removing all thoughts and words. But he couldn’t hide his anger or fear. Annabelle could see everything.
Believe me, I don’t enjoy treating you like a puppet. I’d much rather have your cooperation, Joe. I want to work with you, not against you. We can help each other.
He didn’t believe her. Although he couldn’t read her thoughts the way she could read his, Joe sensed she wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth. But he also noticed that she’d made a concession to him. She’d called him “Joe” instead of “Daddy.” The impostor had deferred to his strong feelings about that. It was a small concession, but it was something.
He stood up straight and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Facing the fence, he stared hard at the choppy waters of the East River. “Who are you?” he whispered. “Just tell me that.”
You have to close your eyes to understand. I’m not going to force you to close them. You have to meet me halfway.
“I don’t want you to pose as my daughter anymore. Stop using her voice.”
All right, if you say so. The voice in his head became deeper and slower. It was still a female voice but not a child’s. It wasn’t the voice of anyone Joe knew, but it sounded vaguely familiar, like a TV anchorwoman’s voice. Is this better?
He nodded. “And I’m not going to call you Annabelle. What’s your real name?”
You can call me Emissary. Because that’s what I am.
“An emissary? For who?”
Close your eyes, Joe.
He was afraid. Part of him didn’t want to know the answer, and part of him already suspected the truth—the gleaming black sphere had fallen from the sky, hadn’t it? But he steeled himself and closed his eyes.
The first thing he saw was a planet. It looked like one of the satellite images of Earth from space, a great blue ball smeared with curving white cloudbanks. At first Joe thought it was Earth, but when he looked past the cloudbanks he saw the outlines of continents—two large and two small ones—and he realized soon enough that they weren’t Asia, Africa, or the Americas.
This is my home.
As Joe stared at the unfamiliar landmasses the Emissary magnified the image, giving him a closer view of a jagged coastline. He felt as if he were descending toward the planet’s surface, falling below the clouds. A city sparkled beneath him, studded with domes and towers. Most of the structures were black and highly polished. After a moment Joe realized they were made of the same material as the gleaming sphere he’d found in Inwood Hill Park.
This is where my journey began. I’ll show you the launch.
The image enlarged again and now Joe saw a black disk resting in an empty sector of the city. Because there were no familiar objects nearby he couldn’t properly judge the size of the disk, but it looked pretty big. The disk had a hole at its center, maybe twenty feet wide, and standing within this hole was an impossibly tall spire. It rose as high as the eye could see, above the clouds and the rest of the planet’s atmosphere.
That’s a space elevator. It can efficiently transport objects from the planet’s surface to high orbits.
As if to demonstrate her point, the disk began climbing the spire, like a flat bead ascending a vertical rod in an abacus. It rose swiftly and steadily, and Joe felt like he was rising with
it, leaving the planet behind. He noticed dozens of gleaming nozzles extending from the underside of the disk. They were rocket engines, he realized. When the disk finally reached the top of the spire, thousands of miles above the planet, it detached from the elevator and fired its engines. Flames blazed from the rocket nozzles, and the spacecraft moved away from the planet at fantastic speed.
All of this happened a long time ago. When I began my journey, your species was just emerging from the Middle Ages.
Joe accelerated through space alongside the craft. He felt giddy, overcome by all the strangeness. The Emissary gave him a closer view of the rocket engines, then showed him the layer of shielding at the front of the spacecraft. Then Joe penetrated the shielding and saw the probe sheltered behind it. It was the same foot-wide sphere that had crash-landed in the park three nights ago, but now Joe could see through its gleaming shell. The machinery inside was densely packed and incomprehensible.
Our computers are very different from yours but the basic design is the same. We have software and hardware. For the duration of the interstellar journey, 652 of your Earth years, I dwelled in the probe’s hardware.
This confused Joe. He looked closely at the alien machinery inside the probe but saw nothing living there. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Where are you?”