by Timothy Zahn
"Why do the Grays care about blending in when they can turn invisible?" Roger asked.
"It's not true invisibility," Velovsky said. "What they can do is freeze in place on the side of a cliff or building, something with a nice simple background, and camouflage themselves to blend in. The technical term is masking."
"Handy," Roger commented.
"Handy, but very limited," Velovsky said. "It wouldn't work while walking down a street, or even sitting in a room with as much variation as this one. Even on the side of a building you can see them if you're close enough. Still, it's useful enough when they want to hang onto the side of the Flat-iron Building and spy on the Greens in Madison Square."
"Is that where you sent them?" Roger asked. "Lower Manhattan?"
Velovsky snorted. "Give me a little more credit than that. It took some fancy footwork, but I finally managed to talk them into moving to Brooklyn and Queens."
"Queens," Roger muttered. "Of course."
"What?"
"I tried to lose a Gray tail by going to Queens." Roger waved a hand. "Never mind. So: Brooklyn and Queens?"
Velovsky nodded. "I assumed they'd take some time to adjust to the new culture and then move to the mountains where they belonged. I thought that if I could keep the two groups separated and unaware of each other for a year or two, I'd be in the clear." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, I failed to take into account the stubbornness of both groups. Once they'd put down roots in their communities, they were in for the long haul."
"How did they discover each other again?" Caroline asked.
"I don't know," Velovsky said heavily. "It could have been the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks—maybe Greens and Grays were both involved in the rescue or cleanup operations. It could have been as simple as a group of Green teenagers taking a day trip to Brooklyn and spotting people their Pastsingers had told them had died three-quarters of a century and a dozen light-years away."
"And you think they're going to start their old war again?" Roger asked.
Velovsky snorted. "My dear boy, it's already started. Or did you think that comment about Grays spying on Madison Square was just a figure of speech?"
Caroline looked at Roger. "But then why haven't we heard about it?" she asked.
"Don't be naive," Velovsky said with another snort. "World War II didn't start the day Hitler marched into Poland, either. The two sides are still in their opening maneuvers: staking out positions, locating the other's strongholds, planning their strategy."
He waved a hand toward the window. "Unfortunately, most of the maneuvering seems to be happening here in the city, with the Grays pushing against Green areas instead of being forced to defend their own homes. Torvald, for instance, one of the chief Grays, moved rather brazenly into MacDougal Alley near Washington Square a couple of months ago, chasing all the Greens away from the park. Thanks to moves like that, they've penetrated a considerable ways into lower Manhattan."
"Maybe even farther north than that," Caroline murmured.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Velovsky said grimly. "They've got their hammerguns, their tels, their instant-rappelling tension lines, and who knows what else. About all Nikolos has to fight back with is a few Warriors and the Shriek."
"Who's Nikolos?" Caroline asked.
"Elymas's son, and the Greens' only Command-Tactician," Velovsky said. "He'll be commanding their forces when the actual fighting breaks out." He grimaced. "What there is of them, anyway.
Between the Group Commanders and the Warriors themselves, I don't think there are more than sixty who can fight."
"Can't they train more?" Roger asked. "You said there were eight hundred and fifty of them."
"It doesn't work that way," Velovsky said. "Like I said before, each Green is born with a particular set of skills, and those skills are what defines him or her. If you're born a Lifesinger or a Laborer or a Warrior, then that's what you are and always will be."
"Sounds like a caste system," Caroline said.
"That's exactly what it is," Velovsky agreed. "But it's imposed by genetics, not society. Don't try to judge the Greens by human standards. They're not like us."
"What are they like?" she countered.
His gaze drifted to the window again. "I've known these people for seven decades, Caroline," he said, his voice quiet and earnest. "I've seen what they do, how they work, the subtle but very real benefits they bring to this city. Go look at police reports and see how many purse-snatchers and muggers fleeing through parks suddenly seem to trip and fall all over themselves. Chances are, a Green Warrior was nearby. Or go to a rehab center and find out how many of their success stories used to sleep on the benches in Central Park. A lot of Lifesingers live there, and their songs of healing can help humans in remarkable ways."
"I'm glad for them," Caroline said shortly. "Now tell us why all these fine and noble people want Melantha dead."
Velovsky hesitated. "All I know is that they need her back," he said. "Aleksander's the one you should talk to. He lives in Central Park, near the Seventh Regiment Memorial by the bowling greens.
If you go there and wait, someone from his group will contact you."
"We'll think about it," Roger said, taking Caroline's arm and getting to his feet. "Thanks for the history lesson."
"Gray aggression cost the Greens their first home, Roger," Velovsky said, not moving from his chair.
"Don't give them the chance to do the same to their second."
"We understand," Roger said. "By the way, where does Cyril hang out?"
Velovsky shook his head. "Cyril's approach won't work," he said. "All that kind of appeasement ever accomplishes is to buy a few months or years of peace. Aleksander is the only one who can finally end this."
"Yes," Roger said. "Cyril's home?"
Velovsky pursed his lips. "Riverside Park, near the Carrere Memorial."
"Thank you," Roger said. "We'll be in touch."
The drizzle had intensified while they'd been inside, though it was still short of what Caroline would have characterized as a full rain. Hoisting their new umbrella, Roger led them back toward 14th Street, threading them deftly through the streams of other pedestrians. He kept a firm grip on Caroline's arm as they walked, almost as if he thought she was a child who might suddenly dart out into traffic.
Or perhaps he just needed the comfort of her touch right now. As much as she needed his.
She waited for him to open the conversation. A block later, he finally did. "What do you think?" he asked.
"For one thing, he's lying about Melantha," she said. "He knows perfectly well what they want her for."
He eyed her oddly. "You sure?"
"Absolutely," she said. "I could see it in his face."
"Oh," he said, sounding a bit taken aback. "Actually, I was asking more about what you thought we should do about Melantha if we find her again."
Caroline gave him a sideways look. "Roger, they want to kill her."
"I'm not sure I believe that anymore," he said. "How can killing a twelve-year-old girl prevent a war?"
"Maybe we should try to find out before we throw her to the wolves," Caroline shot back.
"They're not all wolves, Caroline," he said. "No matter what Melantha told you, they can't all want her dead."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Weren't you listening?" he said. "Velovsky as good as admitted there was a power struggle going on between Aleksander and Cyril. They both want Melantha, only for different reasons."
"Or maybe they just disagree about the best way to kill her," Caroline muttered.
"No," Roger said, shaking his head. "Remember that crack about appeasement. Cyril apparently has a plan to somehow buy off the Grays."
"With Melantha's death?"
"Possibly, though I still don't see how that would work," Roger said. "Aleksander, on the other hand, seems to be going for final victory."
Caroline shivered. "So we basically have a choice between letting Melantha die or letting th
e Grays get slaughtered."
Roger snorted. "We have no choice of anything," he reminded her sourly. "With Melantha gone, we're out of the game."
"No, we're not," Caroline said firmly. "Number one: they still think we know where she is. That gives us some leverage."
"Leverage in what? Caroline, this isn't any of our business."
"With our city about to become a battleground?" Caroline countered. "Of course it's our business.
And number two: if Melantha's free, she is going to come back to us. I know she is."
Roger sighed, and she braced herself for more argument. To her relief, though, he just shook his head. "Well, if it comes down to Melantha or the Grays, I don't think there's much of a choice," he said. "After all, it was the Grays who destroyed the Greens' world."
"Or so Velovsky says," Caroline said. "But don't forget that his attitude toward them started with a brain-meld or whatever with the Green Leader, not to mention seventy-five years of cozying up to them. Of course he's going to take their side."
"Well... maybe."
"And there's one other point," she added. "It wasn't a Green—from either side—who gave Melantha to us in the first place. It was a Gray."
"It was, wasn't it?" Roger said thoughtfully. "Both the body type and disappearing act show that."
"So at least some of the Grays want her alive, too," Caroline concluded.
Roger snorted. "Unfortunately, the only Gray contact we have is Torvald, who's doing his best to push the Greens out of Manhattan."
"According to Velovsky."
"Velovsky wasn't the one using me for target practice last night."
"We still need to hear their side of the story," Caroline insisted.
Roger sighed, shifting their direction toward an artist's supply shop just ahead. "Fine. Torvald likes art. He'd probably appreciate it if we called from an art store."
They ducked into the store, Roger closing the umbrella and shaking it on the doorstep before bringing it inside. Finding a quiet corner, he pulled out his cell phone. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk to him?"
"You're the one he knows."
"I didn't think so." Digging a business card out of his wallet, he glanced at the number and punched it in.
Caroline touched him on the arm and pantomimed putting a phone to her ear. He nodded and leaned his head close to hers, angling the phone so they could both hear.
There was a click. "Hello?" a woman answered.
"I'd like to speak to Torvald," Roger said.
"Who's calling, please?"
"This is Roger," Roger said. "We met yesterday over a trassk."
There was a slight pause. "Just a minute."
The phone went dead. Caroline counted off ten seconds; and then there was another click. "Hello, Roger," a much deeper voice said. "What can I do for you?"
"Hello, Torvald," Roger said. "I called to see if you could clear up a couple of points I'm confused about."
"Certainly," Torvald said. "What would you like to know?"
"Why do you and the Greens both want Melantha dead?"
There was another pause. "You certainly are a direct one," Torvald said. "I'd be happy to discuss the matter. But in person, not over the phone."
Out of the corner of her eye, Caroline saw Roger smile tightly. "Fine," he said. "How about the bar at the Ritz-Carlton? Central Park South at Sixth Avenue."
There was a soft chuckle. "Across the street from Aleksander's private estate?" Torvald asked dryly.
"No, thank you. How about the benches in Police Plaza instead?"
Roger gave a soft snort. "Fine. When?"
"Will an hour from now give you enough time to get there?"
"Sure," Roger said. "See you then."
He broke the connection. "Cute," he said, tucking the phone back into his pocket. "I knew he wouldn't want to go anywhere near Central Park, but I expected him to compromise with someplace as far north as he felt comfortable."
"Which might have told us how far the Grays have penetrated onto Manhattan," Caroline said, nodding her understanding.
"Right," Roger said. "But this doesn't tell us anything at all. With all the cops roaming around Police Plaza, he could probably walk into a Green town meeting and still be safe."
"So are we going to meet him?"
Roger turned and stared out the window. "We could," he said slowly. "Or we could try being cute."
"What do you mean?" Caroline asked suspiciously.
"We assume Torvald will soon be on his way to Police Plaza," Roger said, clearly still working it through. "While he's gone, maybe I should drop by his studio and see what I can dig up."
"You can't be serious," Caroline said, her heart tightening in her chest. "What if they catch you?"
"What if they do?" he countered. "Don't forget, as far as Torvald knows we're still holding the trump card. If he wants Melantha, there's not much he can do, no matter what he catches me doing."
Caroline shook her head. This was undoubtedly the craziest idea Roger had ever come up with. Still, she had to admit that it felt good to see her husband taking a more proactive stance for a change. "All right," she said. "But I'm going with you."
"Caroline—"
"You'll need someone to keep watch," she interrupted him. "And if Torvald can't do anything to you, he can't do anything to me, either."
"I suppose," Roger said, a note of resignation in his voice. "Fine. Let's go."
15
They left the art shop and headed back toward Greenwich Avenue. The rain had faded to barely a drizzle, but Roger nevertheless kept the umbrella snugged low over their heads. "You said Torvald's apartment was north of Washington Square?" Caroline asked as they reached Greenwich Avenue and turned southeast.
"Right," Roger confirmed. "We'll go a couple more blocks, then swing south of the park. That way we'll be able to see if Torvald actually leaves."
A broad-shouldered man in a blue pea coat, his collar turned up against the rain, suddenly stepped out of a doorway in front of them. Roger flinched to his side, nearly throwing Caroline off balance as he broke step. But before he could say or do anything else, the man had taken a pair of quick strides and wrapped a large hand around his upper arm.
Caroline inhaled sharply as a second man, this one wearing a gray jacket with a fleece collar, came up alongside her and closed a hand on her arm as well. Both men, she noticed with a sinking feeling, were short and squat. "Well, well," Roger said grimly. "Caroline, meet my shooting buddies from last night."
Caroline turned as far as she could with her arm pinioned to her side to look at her captor's face. It was wide and almost cheerful looking, but with a strange coolness in his eyes. "You shot at my husband?" she asked him.
"Yeah—sorry about that," he apologized. "But don't forget, he was coming at us with a knife." He looked questioningly at Roger. "You did tell her that part, too, didn't you?"
"Save it for later, Ingvar," the man holding Roger's arm said. "Let's just get them out of here."
"Sure," Ingvar said, giving Caroline's arm a gentle nudge toward a narrow side street angling off to their right. "This way."
"Where are you taking us?" Caroline asked, her voice trembling as she took a step that direction.
"They're not taking us anywhere," Roger said, tightening his grip on her other arm. "Stand still, Caroline."
Caroline looked at him in surprise. Resistance from Roger, especially under such circumstances, was the last thing she would have expected.
It was apparently the last thing their captors expected, too. "What do you think you're doing?" Ingvar demanded, sounding more startled than angry.
"We're not leaving this spot," Roger told him flatly. "You want to say something to us, you say it right here. You want to do something to us, let's see how you like doing it in front of fifty witnesses."
The man holding Roger's arm snorted. "Listen, friend—"
"Easy, Bergan," Ingvar soothed him. "Look, Roger, there's no need for dramatic
s. All Father wants is a little chat."
"Father?" Roger asked, frowning.
"Our father, Halfdan Gray," Ingvar said. "Torvald may have mentioned him."
"No, he didn't," Roger said grimly. "But Melantha did."
"So you do still have her," Bergan said. "Good. He'll definitely want to talk to you."
"Fine," Roger said. "Bring him here, and we'll talk."
Bergan gave a deep sigh. "I'd have thought you'd have learned your lesson last night," he said, shifting hands where he gripped Roger's arm. He twitched his right wrist—
Caroline stiffened as five lines of silvery liquid shot out from under the sleeve of his blue coat onto his palm, twisting together and settling into a dark gray mallet-like object nestled in his hand. "You remember what getting pounded with a hammergun feels like, right?" Bergan went on, pressing the weapon against Roger's ribs. "You don't want your wife to have to feel it, too, do you?"
"We don't want to hurt you," Ingvar added as something hard pressed against Caroline's side as well.
"But as I said, Father wants to talk."
"Okay," Roger said, his voice tight. "Let my wife go, and I'll come with you."
"Sorry, but it's a package deal," Bergan said.
"Come on, let's not make a production of this," Ingvar said reprovingly. "Let's just walk down this street to where we parked our car, then take a nice little ride. Nothing to it."
Roger looked sideways at Caroline. "I don't think we have much choice," she said.
"Yeah, listen to your wife," Bergan said. "Come on, come on—we haven't got all day."
Roger's shoulders sagged slightly in defeat, and with the two Grays still holding their arms they turned onto the side street, their feet kicking up a spray of water. It was a one-way street, Caroline noted, very residential, with the lines of parked cars on both sides leaving only a narrow lane open for traffic. A short block away they reached another small street, this one angling off to the left.
"You might as well wait here," Bergan said, letting go of Roger's arm and continuing up their original street. "I have to come back this way anyway."