by Timothy Zahn
The Green And The Gray
Timothy Zahn
Timothy Zahn
The Green And The Gray
To my agent, editors, former editors, and publishers in New York With thanks for all the advice, local information, and free lunches
PROLOGUE
The sun had long since set behind the trees of Riverside Park, on the western edge of Manhattan Island, and the lights of the New Jersey coastline were glittering on the Hudson River. Melantha Green found herself gazing at the lights, and the dark sky beyond them, as she and the two Warriors on either side of her walked along the cool grass of the upper promenade toward the stone steps leading down to the main part of the park. It had been the last sunset she would ever see, she knew, and she felt a deep sadness that it hadn't been more spectacular. But it hadn't been, and it was over.
The sky was dark, and the marginal warmth of the daylight had given way to the chill of a New York October evening. A steady northerly breeze ruffled through the last remaining leaves, and through the fear and anguish pounding in her heart she could imagine that the trees themselves were saying their farewells. Even as they settled into their yearly winter's rest, she, too, was about to settle into the quiet nothingness of death.
Except that their death would end a few months from now with the warm sunlight and the glorious renewal of spring. Her death would be forever.
The others were waiting at the top of the steps by the John Carrere Memorial as she and her escort arrived, the two small clusters of Greens and Grays standing a little apart from each other. An uneasy truce there might be right now, and genuine peace there might someday be, but that didn't mean either group particularly trusted the other. Some of the faces she could recognize in the glow from the Riverside Drive streetlights: Cyril and Aleksander, the leaders of the Greens, who had talked long and earnestly with her before this decision had been made. Her parents were there, too, trying valiantly to be stoic and loving and supportive even through the agony that was tearing their hearts apart. A couple of the Grays were familiar, too, their wide faces staring silently and emotionlessly at her from atop their squat bodies. The hope of both their peoples, they had called her, the one whose sacrifice would mean peace.
She hoped they were right. It would be a terrible thing to die for nothing.
Her escort led her to a spot midway between the two small knots of people. Cyril had a few words of greeting and encouragement, but it was clear that no one really felt like conversation, and thankfully it was soon over. With the sun down and the night growing cold, even Melantha couldn't see any point in postponing the inevitable any longer.
The preliminaries finished, Cyril and an elderly Gray with a long scar on his left cheek—Halfdan, she vaguely remembered his name—led the way down the steps into the lower part of the park, Melantha and her escort behind them, the rest of the observers joining in behind her. They walked past the small flower garden which she had been told would be her final resting spot, and she found herself wondering whether the flowers would come up extra beautiful in the spring because of it. The grass seemed springier beneath her feet than usual, though that might have been the strange shoes she'd been given to wear along with the ancient ceremonial clothing. Pinned high on her left shoulder, the unaccustomed weight of a trassk tugged uncomfortably at her dress.
They continued past the garden to the chosen spot between a pair of majestic oaks. A few more Greens were waiting there, eyeing and being eyed in turn by three more Grays silently hanging onto the side of the fifteen-foot stone wall that separated the lower part of the park from the upper promenade they'd just come from. The Gray leader beside Cyril gave a quiet order, and the Grays reluctantly came down from their perches, joining with the rest of their group. The lights of Riverside Drive blazed cheerily down from beyond the wall, and Melantha wondered briefly what would happen if some passerby stumbled upon the drama about to unfold. But most of the Humans who lived in the area were already nestled into their apartments for the night, and the wall and height differential effectively shielded them from anyone who might still be out.
She looked around her, trying to get a last taste of the world before she left it forever. The bare branches seemed to be calling to her as the wind brushed them together, and she found herself almost overwhelmed by the delicate scents of the grass and the earth and the trees themselves. Here and there above her, she could see stars peeking through the haze of the city, and even the traffic noise seemed muted tonight. It was, a small part of her mind whispered, a fitting place, and a fitting way, for a Green to die.
Even one who was only twelve years old.
The groups had shuffled into their positions for the ceremony, forming a loose circle with Melantha, her escort, and Cyril and the Gray leader in the center. "Melantha Green," Cyril said, his voice dark and solemn, "we have gathered here tonight to do that which must be done for the survival of our two peoples. Understand that what we do, we do for the best. We ask your forgiveness, and that of your family, and promise to dedicate ourselves to assuring that your sacrifice will not be in vain."
"I understand," Melantha said. As last words, she thought distantly, they were pretty pathetic. But the sadness and dread had seized her again, and how her death was remembered by others didn't seem very important. Her parents were out of her line of sight, and she thought about turning around and making sure they were still there.
But she resisted the urge. This was going to be hard enough on them without leaving a last, lingering look to ache forever in their memories.
"Thank you, Melantha," Cyril said. He took a step back, and nodded to her escort.
One of the Warriors stepped from her side and turned to face her. With his eyes carefully avoiding hers, he reached his hands up and got an almost gentle grip around her throat.
And began to squeeze.
Reflexively, she tried to twist out of his grip, her hands darting up of their own accord to grab at his wrists. But he'd been prepared for the reaction, and his adult Warrior's strength was far beyond that of a twelve-year-old girl. The blood roared in her ears, drowning out all other sounds, but in her mind she could feel the anguished calls coming from the Greens over what had to be done, even from those like Cyril who had persuaded them that it was the only way. Lancing through it all like lightning through storm clouds was the last call from her parents, a vibration of fear and pain and hopelessness.
She could feel her strength ebbing away now, her arms falling loosely to her sides, her knees starting to buckle. Vaguely, she sensed the second Warrior gripping her under her arms, supporting her so that the first could finish the job. White spots were dancing in front of her eyes, and the distant streetlight reflected on his face seemed to be fading away. Did that mean the end was near? Feeling like a dying flower wilting in his grip, she closed her eyes.
Even through the closed lids she saw the brilliant burst of light. The grip on her throat abruptly eased, and she had a vague sense of the anguish swirling around her suddenly replaced with surprise and consternation. There was a distant-sounding shout—the word Betrayal!—
The clutching hands were suddenly torn away from her throat, and she heard a gasp as something threw the Warrior to the ground. Even as she fought to suck air into her lungs, the hands that had been supporting her let go, and she felt herself collapsing toward the grass. Another arm reached out from somewhere, grabbing her around the waist. For a moment her rescuer seemed to totter; and then they were on the move, Melantha's jaw and neck bouncing painfully as he ran with her across the grass. The spots of her near-suffocation were fading away, but to her surprise she found she still couldn't see anything. The streetlights that had been blazing earlier from Riverside Drive had gone complete
ly dark.
"She's gone!" a deep Gray voice boomed from behind her.
There was a flurry of movement from that direction, footsteps and shouts and voices calling to her mind. Her forward motion was abruptly halted, and she felt herself being clutched closer to her rescuer's body as he began to climb the wall the Grays had been hanging onto a few minutes earlier.
She tensed as he climbed, waiting for the inevitable shouts of discovery and the sounds of pursuit.
But all the activity seemed to be moving away from her, either deeper into the darkness of the park or back toward the garden and the stone steps. A moment later she and her rescuer reached the top of the wall and the upper promenade, and once again she found her chin bouncing painfully against his shoulder as he ran silently along the ground.
"You okay?" a gruff voice murmured in her ear. "Melantha?"
It took two tries to get any words out through her half-paralyzed throat. "I'm okay," she wheezed.
Her voice was the voice of a stranger. "Who—?"
"It's Jonah," he said; and this time, she recognized the voice. "Don't try to talk."
Melantha stiffened. That last word had been more grunted than spoken, and for the first time she noticed how labored his breathing sounded. Lifting her left hand from the arm still wrapped around her waist, she carefully touched his chest with her fingertips.
And jerked away as she touched wetness. "Jonah!"
"Don't try to talk," he said again, his breathing sounding even more ragged. "It's okay."
He slowed to a walk, his head turning back and forth as if taking his bearings. A moment later he came to a complete stop, letting her slip a bit so that her feet were touching the ground. She stretched her legs, trying to take some of her own weight away from him. But her knees were too weak to give any support, and a terrible fatigue was beginning to wash over her. In the distance behind them she could feel the calls of chaos and consternation and growing anger. "This... isn't right," she managed to whisper. "I need... to go back."
He leaned down and lifted her again off her feet, stifling her protest. "It'll be okay," he murmured as they headed off again.
The last thing she remembered before drifting into a nightmare-filled sleep was the sensation of her head bouncing rhythmically against his shoulder as he ran through the night.
1
The play at the Miller Theater had been one of those modern psychological dramas, exactly the sort of thing Roger Whittier would expect from a Columbia University student production: dark and pretentious, relying heavily on deep sociological quirks, without any pretense of rationality in its plot. From the polite applause bouncing off the lowering curtain, he guessed that most of the audience had found it as mediocre as he had.
Which was practically a guarantee that Caroline would love it.
Suppressing a sigh, he continued to slap his hands together, trying not to be embarrassed by the fact that his wife was one of the half-dozen people who had jumped to their feet in standing ovation. In four years of marriage he had yet to figure out whether Caroline's enthusiasm in these situations was genuine, driven by sympathy for the underdog, or just stubborn defiance of popular opinion.
The applause went down, the house lights came up, and the rest of the audience got to their feet and began unscrunching their coats from the backs of their seats. Roger joined the general chaos, mindful of his elbows as he pulled on his topcoat and buttoned it. He'd endured the play; and now came the verbal diplomacy as he tried not to tell Caroline exactly what he'd thought of it. The more enthusiastic her response, in general, the stonier the wall of silence that went up if he tried to point out how much the thing had actually stunk.
A flying elbow jabbed him in his right shoulder blade. "Sorry," he said automatically, half turning.
The offender, a small wizened man with an expensive topcoat and bad comb-over, grunted something and turned away. Roger turned away, too, muttering under his breath as he struggled to get his right arm into a sleeve that had pretzeled itself into a knot. What in hell's name was I apologizing for? he growled to himself. He finished with his coat and turned to see if Caroline was ready.
Caroline wasn't ready. Caroline, in fact, had vanished.
He looked down, a fresh wave of annoyance rolling over the pool of resentment already sloshing through his stomach. She was on her knees on the floor, her back twisted into half an S-curve as she scrabbled around in the shadows. "Which one is it this time?" he demanded.
"My opal ring," Caroline's voice came back, muffled by distance and the dark hair draped along both sides of her face.
Roger looked away, not bothering to reply. It was always the same lately. If she wasn't running late because the water heater had drained too far for another shower, then she was misplacing her watch or losing her ring or suddenly remembering that the plants needed watering.
Why couldn't she ever get herself organized? She was a real estate agent, for heaven's sake—she certainly had to have her ducks in a row at work. Why couldn't she do it at home, too?
She was still bobbing around, searching for the missing ring. For a moment he considered getting down and seeing if he could help this along a little. But no. She knew better than he did where it had slipped off, and he would just be in the way.
Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, he watched the other people streaming out the doors. If she didn't hurry, he told himself darkly, they weren't going to get a cab.
The last stragglers were strolling toward the exits by the time Caroline finally spotted her ring, hiding behind the front leg of the chair in front of hers. "Found it," she announced, retrieving the wayward jewelry.
Roger didn't reply. He's angry, she realized, an all-too-familiar sinking feeling settling into her stomach. Angry, or annoyed, or frustrated. Like he always seemed to be lately. Especially with her.
She felt her eyes filling with tears as she carefully climbed back to her feet, tears of frustration and some annoyance of her own. I didn't drop it on purpose, she thought angrily in his direction. I didn't see you offering to help, either.
But it was no use. He hadn't liked the play, and he was probably steaming over that man who'd bumped into him a minute ago. But no matter what happened, or whose fault it was, in the end it all got focused on her. On her slowness, on her lack of organization, on whatever else she did that irritated him.
He was already moving toward the aisle by the time she had collected her coat and purse, his back rippling with impatience. Roger never yelled at her—that wasn't his style—but he could do a brooding silence that hurt more than her father's quicksilver temper ever had.
In some ways she wished he would yell. At least then he would be talking honestly instead of pretending everything was all right when it wasn't.
But that would require him to be assertive. No chance of that happening.
No chance of getting a cab now, either. That would irritate him all the more, especially given the near-argument they'd had on the subject as they were getting ready to leave this evening.
With a sigh, she headed off behind his impatient back, her vision blurring again with tears. Why couldn't she ever do anything right?
Sure enough, by the time they stepped out into the cool October air, the line of cabs that would have gathered at the curb for the post-performance crowd had vanished. "Blast," Roger muttered under his breath, looking up and down Broadway.
But the Great White Way was quiet tonight, or at least this stretch of it was. The university had a significant chunk of the street blocked off with a construction project up around 120th, and the city's own orange-cone mania had similarly struck down at 103rd, sealing off most of the street there. The cabbies, who had enough trouble just battling regular Manhattan traffic, had taken to avoiding these particular twenty blocks entirely.
Of course, they could always walk over to Amsterdam and flag down something there. But Amsterdam turned one-way-north at 110th, which would force the cabby to head farther east to Columb
us, which was currently handling much of the Broadway traffic in addition to its own. It probably wouldn't get them home any sooner than just walking the twenty blocks, not to mention the expense involved. There was always the subway, of course, but Caroline had an absolute phobia about riding it after dark.
But to walk would mean giving in.
"I suppose we could walk," Caroline offered timidly from beside him, her voice sounding like someone easing her way onto thin ice.
"I suppose we could," Roger echoed, hearing the hardness in his own voice. That had been their pretheater argument: a brief staking out of turf on Caroline's current favorite subject of exercise, and how both of them needed more of it.
And once she got an idea or crusade into her head, there was no getting it out of her. Three cheers for the underdog, four cheers for the noble cause, damn the torpedoes, and full speed ahead.
He frowned sideways at her in sudden suspicion. Could she have lost her ring back there on purpose, staging the whole thing to force them to walk home like she wanted?
For a long second he considered calling her bluff, either walking them over to Amsterdam or using his cell phone to summon a cab right here and insisting they wait until it arrived. But the wind was starting to pick up, and standing around freezing would definitely qualify as a Pyrrhic victory. Better to get home as quickly as possible, even if it meant giving in.
Besides, she was probably right. They probably could both use more exercise.
"Sure, why not?" he said, turning south along Broadway. "Unless you think you'll be too cold."
"No, I'm fine," she assured him. His sudden capitulation must have caught her by surprise, because she had to take a couple of quick steps to catch up. "It's a nice night for a walk."
"I suppose," he said.
Caroline fell silent, without even a passing mention of exercise. At least she was being a gracious winner.