The Green And The Gray

by Timothy Zahn

For a few seconds he stood still, thoughts of desperate men and shoot-outs flashing through his mind, wondering if it was time to call for backup. But then the cough came again: and this time, he could hear an edge of pain or fatigue to it.

  And if he couldn't handle a lone, injured man who'd been out in the cold for three nights, he had no business being a cop in this city. Checking to make sure his Glock 9mm was riding loose in its shoulder holster, he continued up.

  There was no one on the fifth landing, or the sixth. He was on his way to the seventh and final landing when he heard the cough again.

  Only this time it had come from below him.

  He looked down. The fire escape was bars and metal mesh, without a single shred of cover anywhere on it. And yet, unless the mugger was also a ventriloquist, Fierenzo had somehow walked right past him.

  He was back on the fifth landing, looking for something—anything—out of the ordinary, when something like a movement at the building side of the landing caught the corner of his eye.

  He looked quickly in that direction, but there was nothing there but more mesh and wall. He was staring at the spot when the movement came again, a subtle rippling in the pattern of the building's brickwork. His eyes seemed to refocus themselves....

  And there, tucked into the angle between the mesh and the wall was a vague, half-curled-up outline of a human being.

  He had no memory later of having drawn his gun, but suddenly it was in his hand. "Freeze!" he snapped at the outline, wondering fleetingly if this was what it was like to go insane. "Police. Let me see your hands."

  For a handful of seconds nothing happened, the pause giving Fierenzo time to notice both the irony and the absurdity of his standard cop's command. Show me your hands, he said to the invisible man.... The outline quivered with another cough; and then, like a window curtain being pulled back, the image hardened and solidified.

  And there on the landing lay a short, stocky young man, curled around himself against the cold, gazing at Fierenzo with half-hooded blue eyes. His shirt beneath a thin jacket was stained dark with dried blood. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

  It took Fierenzo two tries to find his voice. "Detective Sergeant Thomas Fierenzo, NYPD," he said, squatting down beside the man. "Who are you?"

  The man's eyes dropped to the gun in Fierenzo's hand, and he smiled weakly. "You won't need that," he said.

  "Probably not," Fierenzo agreed, slipping the weapon back into its holster. Judging from the man's drawn face and half-closed eyes it was clear he wasn't in any shape for a fight. More importantly, both his hands were in sight and empty. "What's your name?"

  The man took a careful breath, as if still uncertain of the state of his lungs. "Jonah," he said. "Who are you working for?"

  "I already told you," Fierenzo said. "The police."

  "I mean who are you really working for?" Jonah asked, his face hardening. "Cyril, or Aleksander?"

  "My boss is Lieutenant Cerreta, 24th Precinct," Fierenzo said stiffly. "If you're implying—wait a second," he interrupted himself as his numbed brain began to catch the rails again. "Cyril? As in...

  Cyril?"

  For a moment Jonah stared at him with an expression that made Fierenzo wonder if he ought to rethink the man's threat potential. Then the look faded, and the eyelids half-lowered again. "You're not with them," he said, breathing hard as if the simple act of giving Fierenzo a hard stare had worn him out. "But you do know them?"

  "By reputation only." Fierenzo cocked an eyebrow. "I haven't met Melantha yet, either."

  He'd hoped dropping the girl's name would spark a reaction. He hadn't been prepared for quite the reaction he got. Jonah's eyes snapped fully open, his throat suddenly tight. "Where is she?" he demanded, his right hand groping to a grip on the lapel of Fierenzo's coat.

  "None of that," Fierenzo warned, grabbing the other's hand and starting to pry the fingers away.

  Jonah's left hand lifted—

  And to his astonishment, Fierenzo found himself looking down the muzzle of the strangest-looking gun he'd ever seen.

  "Take it easy," he said quickly, abandoning his efforts to pry Jonah's hand away from his coat. "I already said I haven't met her. I don't know where she is, either."

  For a moment Jonah didn't move. His weapon, Fierenzo noted distantly, looked more like an elaborately carved judge's gavel with flattened sides and a shortened grip than a real handgun. But there was no mistaking the purpose of the small hole pointing at the detective's face.

  And then, to his relief, Jonah's right fingers loosened their grip on his coat, the hand falling limply onto the landing. "She has to be all right," he murmured. His gun-hand wavered away from the detective's face, opening as he let go of his gun.

  Fierenzo was ready, darting his hand down to catch the weapon before it fell onto the landing. But his hand caught nothing but empty air. "I'm sure she is," he said absently, his eyes searching vainly for the gun. Still, with appearing and disappearing men, what was the big deal about appearing and disappearing guns? "Right now, we have to get you to a hospital."

  "No!" Jonah insisted, grabbing weakly at Fierenzo's hand as he reached for his cell phone. "No hospital. If you take me there, they'll find me."

  "We can put you under police protection," Fierenzo assured him. "You'll be perfectly safe."

  "Aleksander will walk right past them," Jonah said wearily. "He'll ask nicely, and just walk on past."

  Fierenzo opened his mouth... closed it again. Cyril had walked past the doorman and super in the Whittiers' building simply by asking. Did Jonah think cops would behave the same way if Aleksander showed up and also asked nicely? Apparently, he did.

  And he might be right. "You still need medical attention," he said.

  Jonah shook his head. "All I need is food and rest."

  "What, from that?" Fierenzo countered, gesturing to the blood-encrusted shirt.

  "It happened Wednesday night," Jonah said. "If it was that bad, I should already be dead."

  He had a point, Fierenzo had to admit. "I'll make you a deal," he said. "If you can get down the fire escape without bleeding, blacking out, or coughing up blood, I'll take you somewhere besides a hospital. Otherwise, it's straight to St. Luke's. Agreed?"

  Jonah gazed at the detective a moment, as if weighing the other's trustworthiness, then nodded.

  "Agreed."

  "Good," Fierenzo said, straightening up and extending a hand. "Let's get you out of the cold."

  Jonah was built like a wrestler, and felt like he weighed as much as two of them. Fortunately, once Fierenzo got him on his feet he was mostly able to navigate on his own. They made it down the fire escape, and Fierenzo left him in the alley while he retrieved his car.

  "Where are we going?" Jonah asked when they were finally on their way.

  "My apartment near Lincoln Center," Fierenzo told him. "My family's visiting relatives in Illinois, so it'll just be the two of us."

  "Sounds good," Jonah said. Already his breathing sounded better, Fierenzo decided. At the same time, he seemed considerably sleepier than he had on the fire escape.

  And in fact, before they even hit the next street, he was snoring away.

  Fierenzo grimaced. Lieutenant Cerreta, he suspected, would have a world-class fit when he found out about this. But if it finally gave Fierenzo a handle on the case, it would be worth it.

  In the meantime, he still had the Whittiers to deal with. With a little luck, maybe he would have their set of puzzle pieces in hand by the time Jonah was ready to give up his.

  And with a little more luck, maybe the two sets would actually fit together.

  Fishing out his cell phone, he popped it open. Time to check Powell's progress with the Whittiers'

  cab.

  17

  Even before the cab made it to the eastern edge of Manhattan, the drizzle began to taper off. By the time they reached the FDR and turned northward, Roger could see a little blue sky starting to peek through the clouds in the west. Just as t
he Green had predicted, it was turning into a nice day for a drive.

  Not that either of their passengers was in the mood to appreciate it. Caroline hadn't said a word since they'd driven off, and every time Roger looked her direction he found her face turned slightly away from him as she gazed out the window. She was holding his hand, nestled there in her lap. But the fingers were stiff and cold, and he knew that only part of that was from fear and uncertainty.

  The rest was undoubtedly anger... and it wasn't hard to guess where the slow burn was coming from.

  Wimp was certainly one of the words bouncing around her skull. Coward was probably in there, too.

  He couldn't really blame her.

  His first thought as they got on the FDR was that they were being taken back to the Youngs'

  apartment and the site of Melantha's latest disappearance. But the cab passed the turnoff without even slowing down. His next guess was that they were being taken to Central Park West. But they passed the likely turnoffs for that, too.

  He had just started to wonder if they were being taken off the island entirely when the driver turned off onto 116th and headed west across East Harlem. They passed through that neighborhood, through Harlem itself, and finally came to a stop at Morningside Park.

  "End of the line," the Green beside Roger announced as he opened the door and climbed out. "Come on, come on."

  Silently, Roger obeyed, offering Caroline a hand as she slid across the seat to the door. The Green in the passenger seat had gotten out, too, and gestured into the park. "This way," he said.

  "Where are we going?" Roger asked, looking around.

  "There," the Green said, pointing up the slope to the tall stone wall towering above them. "Columbia University."

  "Why don't we just drive around to the other side?" Roger asked, a shiver running through him as he looked up. Columbia University, home to the Miller Theater, where he and Caroline had been just before they'd met Melantha. Coincidence?

  "Because it's more anonymous this way," the Green said. "Besides, you look like you can use the exercise. Let's go."

  It was a long way up from the park to the university, and even with the various sections of more or less level ground interspersed with the stairs Roger's leg muscles were starting to complain by the time they reached the top. The two Greens took them a short way down the street, through an open gate into a small brick-and-pavement courtyard, then down another short walkway to a building identifying itself as the Faculty House. Another Green was waiting, and opened the door as they walked up. "President's Room," he told their escort as they filed through. "Second floor."

  They arrived at the President's Room to find a single occupant waiting at one of the round tables by the windows, an older man with a lined face and patches of silver twisting through his otherwise black hair. "Roger and Caroline Whittier," he greeted them, rising from his chair as they approached.

  He was dressed in a white turtleneck, black slacks, and a green blazer with a tapering filigree of muted copper pinned to the left lapel. "Please; sit down."

  Roger took the chair across from him, giving the other a quick study. Despite the wrinkles and patches of silver hair, he had the same sort of grace and dignity that Roger had noticed earlier in Sylvia.

  "I'm glad you could come here today," he commented as Caroline sat down at Roger's left. "My name is Nikolos Green."

  "Ah," Roger said, nodding. "The Command-Tactician."

  "And Leader Elymas's son," Caroline added quietly. "You're a well-preserved octogenarian."

  "Thank you," Nikolos said, smiling wryly as he reseated himself. "Though to be fair, Greens don't age quite the same way as Humans do."

  He looked over at the other two Greens. "You're dismissed," he said.

  "Yes, Commander," one of them acknowledged. Together they crossed the dining room and left.

  "Nice quiet place you have here," Roger commented. "According to the sign downstairs, it's only open on weekdays."

  Nikolos shrugged. "I have certain privileges."

  "Do those privileges include kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon?" Roger countered.

  Nikolos lifted his eyebrows. "Kidnapping? Come now. You were invited to visit me, and you accepted."

  "And the knives those invitations were engraved on?"

  "Knives?" Nikolos asked, looking politely puzzled. "No, no. I'm sure all you saw was a trassk." He reached up and unfastened the pin from his lapel. "Like this one."

  "It was nothing like that," Roger growled, starting to feel annoyed at this childish game.

  "Perhaps it was the lighting." Nikolos turned the pin over in his left hand, the copper filaments catching the light from the windows, and for a moment he stroked it meditatively with the fingertips of his right. Then he closed his right hand over the pin, squeezed it and slid his hand away toward Roger—

  Roger caught his breath. The pin had vanished. In its place, stretched across Nikolos's open left palm, was a long, slender knife. "You can see what sort of tricks lighting can play on your eyes,"

  Nikolos said. He closed his right hand over the knife again, pushing the point of the blade back toward the hilt as if collapsing a telescope. "It can make you think you've seen something that can't possibly be there."

  He squeezed his right hand a few times as if kneading bread dough; and when he lifted it away again the knife had been replaced by a small, copper-colored replica of the Statue of Liberty. "Very nice,"

  Roger commented. "May I?"

  "Of course." Leaning forward, Nikolos handed the statue across the table.

  Roger looked closely at it. The statue seemed perfectly solid, perfectly ordinary, the sort of trinket sold by the thousands in Times Square souvenir shops. It was about the same weight as the gun the mugger had given him Wednesday night, he decided, and approximately the same weight as the trassk he was still carrying in his pocket. "Impressive," he said, handing the statue to Caroline.

  Nikolos shrugged. "A parlor trick," he said, his voice sounding oddly sad. "Useful enough, but little more than a memory of happier times."

  "How do you work it?" Caroline asked, turning the statue over in her hand. "Is this one of the Gifts?"

  "No, any Green can manipulate a trassk," Nikolos said. "And only Greens, of course. We can make it into anything we can visualize, consistent with its mass. Still, the metal is very strong, and like gold can be stretched almost infinitely thin."

  He held out his hand, and she returned the statue to him. Again he kneaded it, then pulled it outward into a disk the size of a dinner plate. "As you see, it looks much bigger than should be possible, considering its original size," he said, holding it up. "What you don't see is how thin the metal has become in order to stretch this far."

  He banged the disk gently on the table. "Yet even now it's strong enough to easily maintain its shape.

  It can also be made flexible or even completely elastic." He manipulated it again, turning it into a giant rubber band. "Like so," he said, stretching it nearly to arms' length before letting it collapse again.

  "How long will it stay that way?" Caroline asked.

  "Left on its own, it reverts in anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, depending on how solidly its owner fixed it," Nikolos told her. "Obviously, a Green can alter it before then if he or she chooses."

  "The multitool every well-dressed Green is wearing this season," Roger murmured.

  "Once, that was literally true," Nikolos said. "But not anymore. We collected all the trassks we could before we fled our homeland, but our numbers have long since outstripped our meager supply.

  Nowadays, there are only enough for our Warriors and a few of our top people."

  "Melantha had one," Caroline pointed out.

  "A special dispensation for a special occasion," Nikolos said. "That particular trassk had once been my mother's." His lips compressed briefly. "She was killed in the war, before we came here."

  "I'm sorry," Caroline murmured.

  "Why
don't you make more of them?" Roger asked. "Did you forget how?"

  "You can't forget what you never knew," Nikolos said ruefully. "The truth is, the trassks were made and given to us a long time ago... by the Grays."

  Roger blinked. "The Grays?"

  "Back when we lived together in peace and harmony." Nikolos placed his hands on opposite sides of the coppery rubber band and squeezed, and the trassk returned to its original shape. "As I said, memories of happier times."

  "What happened?" Caroline asked.

  "We met largely by accident," Nikolos said, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he refastened the brooch onto his lapel. "Both of our peoples were fleeing from conflicts with the Others, the ones who dominated our world. The Greens had been migrating northward, the Grays coming south, and we met in a place we always referred to simply as the Great Valley."

  He shook his head. "You never saw such a place," he said quietly. "A swift-flowing river cut through the ground at the base of a line of bluffs rising from the riverbed. Hundreds of Gray families moved in there. On the other side of the river, a vast forest stretched across the rolling ground, eventually rising to a line of craggy mountains where the Grays set up a second colony. The forest itself went on for miles, filling the area between the ranges, with enough room for generations of Greens to come. The approaches were difficult to traverse, and lay a considerable distance from the Others'

  trade routes. We had every expectation that we could live there for a long time in peace."

  He stroked his trassk. "The Grays made little toys like this for us—they were cunning toolmakers, skilled beyond the capabilities of even our best Creators and Manipulators. In return, we used our Gifts to work with nature in ways their metalsmithing skills couldn't match. Our Manipulators and Laborers created gardens and specialized tree forms for them, while our Farseers located game and hidden fish schools for them to hunt. In many cases, our Lifesingers could also heal them of illnesses or injuries."

  "I'm still unclear as to how these Gifts work," Roger said.

  "There are only a few basic ones, which can mix together in different ways," Nikolos said. "The Higher Gifts, also called Mind Worker Gifts, are those of Visionary, Persuader, Pastsinger, Lifesinger, Command-Tactician, and Groundshaker. There are distinctions according to strength: a Farseer is a less focused Visionary, while a Farspeaker is a less powerful Persuader. A Leader, on the other hand, is the rare person who combines both the Visionary and Persuader Gifts. Overall, about one in eight of our people are Mind Workers."