The Green And The Gray

by Timothy Zahn

  He was pondering the odd pace of construction in his city when two figures suddenly appeared in the middle of the sidewalk ten yards ahead of him.

  Fierenzo slowed his pace, feeling his heart rate pick up, wondering where in hell the two men had come from. The chain-link fence didn't allow for any cover, there were no cars parked along the street, and the trees lining the sidewalk by the fence wouldn't conceal anyone over the age of two.

  And yet, there they were. Friends of Jonah's, maybe?

  They made no move as he continued toward them. They were both young, probably in their midtwenties, and wiry looking. The taller had short dark hair and a narrow face with a long aquiline nose, while his companion was half a head shorter and had an abundance of curly black hair.

  "Evening," Fierenzo called. "Chilly night, isn't it?"

  "Yes, indeed," Aquiline Nose called back. "Are you Detective Sergeant Fierenzo?"

  So they weren't just random if gutsy muggers, working in the shadow of the 24th Precinct House, but had been waiting for him specifically. "Yes," he confirmed, coming to a halt a double arm's length away from them. "What can I do for you?"

  "We need the sketches," Nose said.

  "All of them," Curly added.

  "Sketches?" Fierenzo asked, deciding to try the dumb approach first. That tended to make people angry, and angry people often talked too much.

  "The sketches Oreste Green made for you," Nose said calmly. "The ones of the two Grays on Waverly Place this morning."

  "You mean Halfdan Gray and his son?" Fierenzo suggested.

  "Halfdan?" Curly asked, frowning. "Oreste didn't say it was—"

  "We'd love to have a nice chat about this," Nose cut him off. "But right now, all we want are the sketches."

  Fierenzo shook his head. "Sorry, but they're back on my desk."

  "Fine," Nose said agreeably. "Let's go get them."

  "Okay," Fierenzo said. He turned around, making a quick visual sweep of the area as he did so; but instead of ending his turn pointed back down the sidewalk, he made a complete three-sixty, coming around again to face the two men, his Glock ready in his hand. "On second thought," he said as he wrapped his finger around the trigger, "you two can walk in front."

  In the harsh glare of the streetlights, he saw Nose's lips curve into a patronizing smile. Opening his mouth wide, he screamed.

  Fierenzo jerked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. It was the same scream he'd heard outside the park that morning, the scream that had first driven him up a lamppost and then dropped him flat on the sidewalk.

  But it was the same in quality only, in the eerie, unearthly tone and reverberation. For sheer force of impact, this blast was incredibly more powerful. Fierenzo found himself staggering backward as the sound slammed across his face and torso like hurricane-driven sand, battering his ears and eyes and face, turning his muscles to quivering rubber, twisting through his stomach and leaving a trail of agonized cramping in its wake.

  Something slapped against the back of his head, and with a start he realized he'd blundered sideways into the chain-link fence. His gun was still clenched in his right hand; groping blindly over his shoulder with his left, he managed to get a grip on the cold metal rings. For a long moment he just hung there, struggling to keep his balance against the vertigo that was spinning the city around him like a carnival fun ride. Opening his eyes—he hadn't even realized until then that he'd shut them—he saw the two men walking confidently toward him. "Now, then," Nose said casually. "You were saying?"

  Clamping his teeth against the nausea trying to turn his stomach inside out, Fierenzo lifted the dead weight of his gun from his side. "Police," he managed.

  Nose didn't even break stride. Even as Fierenzo tried to sort out which muscles controlled his trigger finger, the other stepped up and deftly twisted the gun out of his hand. From six inches away, he gave another short, bark-like scream, sending Fierenzo's head slamming backward into the fence.

  The fingers of his left hand spasmed, losing their grip, and he collapsed into a shivering heap on the sidewalk. Blinking tears from his eyes, he saw the two pairs of shoes in front of his face shift position as the men squatted down beside him. "That was very foolish," Nose said. "Now you're going to hurt for hours, and we're still going to have the sketches. Where are they?"

  It would be so easy to give in, a corner of Fierenzo's mind whispered through the pain. All he had to do was point to his jacket pocket, and they would take the papers and leave him alone.

  Even more importantly, he wouldn't have to suffer the shame of being walked through the station house like a staggering drunk or drooling Alzheimer's patient. He might still hurt for hours, but at least he'd be able to hang onto some shred of dignity.

  He twisted his head around to look up into Nose's eyes. "I told you already," he croaked. "They're on my desk."

  "Fine," Nose said, taking one of Fierenzo's arms. Curly took the other, and they hauled him to his feet. "Let's go take out a police station."

  22

  "—siv thuysen mecidu-noens fyl errea!" eleven-year-old Phyllida called, standing tall and proud in a posture that reminded Roger of Melantha after she'd won her first game of Crazy Eights. The girl lifted her arms toward the ceiling, gave a flourish of hands and fingers that was too complicated for him to follow, then let her arms drop to her sides again.

  "—and in peace they lived there all," her younger brother Yannis said with equal drama. "The Song of Tros-partia," the two children said in unison, and bowed low toward the five adults seated on the chairs and couches in front of them.

  "Very nice," Caroline said approvingly, her tone finally carrying some genuine warmth. But of course, Caroline had always been a sucker for a good performance, especially one involving earnest amateurs. The children's impromptu recital had been just the thing to bring her around.

  "Definitely," Roger seconded, wondering if he should point out that it had been far more interesting than that psychological drivel they'd suffered through three nights ago at the Miller Theater.

  Probably not. "Did they do the translation themselves?"

  "Oh, no," Iolanthe said. "The Song of Tros-partia is a landmark saga of our earliest recorded history.

  We wouldn't trust it to any but the most Gifted of our Pastsingers."

  "That was actually the third English translation of the Song," Aleksander added. "As we've grown more knowledgeable about your language's nuances over the years, the Pastsingers have tried to render it ever more accurately while still maintaining the classic form and sentence structure. This version was completed only two years ago."

  "The children did a wonderful job," Caroline said. "Do you suppose one of them might grow up to be a Pastsinger?"

  "We've wondered that ourselves," Vasilis acknowledged. "But then, every parent wants his or her child to be blessed with one of the Higher Gifts. We'll just have to wait and see."

  "How exactly do these Gifts work?" Roger asked. "Is it genetic, or something else?"

  "It's basically genetic," Vasilis said. "A pair of Laborers will tend to have Laborer children, a pair of Farseers will tend to have more Farseers, and so on."

  "The whole dominant/recessive thing is more complicated than with Humans, though," Aleksander added. "Take Vasilis and Iolanthe, for example. As a Manipulator, Iolanthe has a small bit of the Groundshaker Gift, so if there was to be a true Groundshaker born among us, you might reasonably guess he or she would come out of this homestead. But their eldest daughter, Xylia, has already tested out as a Laborer, and there's no particular reason to assume Phyllida and Yannis will have any of the Mind Gifts."

  "How about Melantha's parents?" Roger asked.

  "Another good example," Aleksander said, nodding. "Zenas and Laurel are both Laborers, who by all rights should only have Laborer children. It just shows you can never predict where the lightning will strike."

  "At any rate, we very much appreciate you sharing that with us," Roger said, looking back at the children.


  "Children?" Iolanthe prompted.

  "You're welcome," the two children said, again in unison.

  "And now it's time for bed," Vasilis said. "Go get your night things on."

  Yannis made a face, but apparently knew better than to argue. Nodding acknowledgment of their instructions, they left the living room.

  "They do a very effective dramatic reading," Roger commented. "Though that unison thing is a little unnerving. Do they practice that, or does it come naturally?"

  "It's mostly a side effect of our close-range empathic communication," Vasilis said. "And siblings often have clearer communication among themselves than usual."

  "But I think they do practice, as well," Iolanthe added. "They've always been fascinated by coordinated movement, whether in dance routines or Olympic synchronized swimming."

  "Any word yet from the searchers?" Caroline asked.

  "Only that Melantha hasn't answered any of their calls," Aleksander said. If he was startled by the sudden change in subject, he didn't show it. "Trust me: the minute she does, you'll be among the first to know."

  "Can't you just sense her presence or something?" Roger asked.

  "Unfortunately, it's not that easy," Aleksander said. "If it was, we'd have found her at your apartment that very first night. No, if Melantha chooses not to answer a call, the searchers could walk right past her without knowing it."

  "What about you?" Caroline asked. "Couldn't you order her to respond?"

  "I think you're under the impression that Persuaders have considerably more power than we actually do," Aleksander said. "We don't order people to do anything. It really is just persuasion: the pushing of our particular point of view while still allowing the other person to make up his or her own mind."

  "And thanks to you, Melantha has had a chance to rethink her earlier decision to allow this insane sacrifice," Vasilis added. "As long as that hasn't happened, there's still a chance for Aleksander to persuade enough of the Greens to our side."

  "What happens if you do?" Roger asked. "Nikolos said Melantha isn't at her full strength yet."

  "No, but merely the threat she poses might be enough," Aleksander said. "If we can convince the Grays that we would be willing to create a wholesale slaughter—which, of course, we aren't—

  perhaps we can make them leave New York of their own accord."

  "Why don't you just leave?" Caroline asked. "There's a huge country out there just waiting for you."

  "Because this is our home," Iolanthe said. "How do you just pick up and leave your home?"

  "You did it once before," Caroline reminded her.

  "It's not that simple."

  "Why not?" Caroline persisted, starting to sound a little cross. "I'm still waiting to hear a good reason."

  "No offense, Caroline, but it's really none of your business," Vasilis said, sounding a little cross himself. "If we choose to stay here—"

  "It's all right, Vasilis," Aleksander interrupted him quietly. "We've told them this much. We might as well tell them the rest."

  He looked back at Roger. "It has to do with our transport, the one buried under Ellis Island," he said.

  "We still use it to grow some of the herbs and spices we knew back on our own world."

  "Yes, Velovsky mentioned that," Roger said. "Is there a problem with it?"

  Aleksander sighed. "Just the rather awkward fact that we can't move it."

  "Its propulsion systems don't work anymore?"

  "They work just fine," Aleksander said dryly. "Unfortunately, so does Human sonar."

  Roger grimaced, suddenly understanding. "Oh."

  " 'Oh,' indeed," Aleksander agreed heavily. "It was probably risky enough bringing it into New York harbor through all the traffic back in 1928. Now, with modern underwater detection, we couldn't move it a hundred yards without triggering an early-warning system somewhere."

  "Especially after 9/11," Roger said.

  "Indeed," Aleksander said. "So now you know the truth. We can't move the transport, and we also can't abandon it to the risk of being found by the Humans or, worse, by the Grays."

  "Which leaves us only one choice," Iolanthe said. "We have to stand and fight."

  "And the only way to do that is with Melantha," Aleksander concluded. "I'm convinced that if I can talk to her, I can bring her onto our side—" He broke off. "Ah—I see we're ready for bed."

  Roger turned. Vasilis and Iolanthe's son and daughter had returned, along with the four other children who had been at dinner that evening. All were clothed in leotard-like outfits of various shades of green, with dark brown half-boots of a soft-looking material on their feet. "Nice pajamas," he commented.

  "Has everyone cleaned their teeth?" Iolanthe asked, standing up. Six heads nodded silently. She nodded back, then turned to Roger and Caroline. "Would you like to come, too?" she invited. "You, especially, Roger, said you wanted to know more about the tree thing."

  "Definitely," Roger said, getting to his feet. "Come on, Caroline. This should be interesting."

  At first, Fierenzo's legs wouldn't work at all. He sagged in the middle of the sidewalk, muscles trembling uncontrollably as his attackers held him up by his arms like a puppet with broken strings.

  "You can do it," Nose said encouragingly. "You want to be here all night?"

  "Go to hell," Fierenzo gritted out, fighting to get his feet under him. This time his knees held as he cautiously put a little of his weight on them. He tried taking a step, and collapsed again into his captors' grip as he let the joints buckle again.

  Curly swore in an unfamiliar language. "Come on, Fierenzo—we didn't hit you that hard."

  "Maybe you've never hit a diabetic before," Fierenzo snarled back. "Give me a chance, will you?"

  "We're wasting time," Curly growled. "I say we go in and get them ourselves."

  "Patience is a virtue," Nose said. "He can have one more minute."

  Fierenzo smiled tightly to himself. In actual fact, despite the lingering pain, his muscles were recovering quite nicely. Already, he judged, he ought to be able to at least hobble if he had to.

  But his captors didn't know that, and the throwaway fib about diabetes should have muddied the waters that much more. If his helpless act could buy him a little more time, he should be able to run or fight if and when a suitable opportunity presented itself.

  He spent Nose's extra minute in a great show of agony and unsteadiness. All too soon, though, it was over. "That's long enough," Curly declared, balling his hand into a fist and giving Fierenzo's kidney a none-too-gentle prod. "Move, or we leave you here."

  "You'll never get in there alone," Fierenzo ground out, the warning buying him another couple of seconds. He was definitely coming out of this now, and should be back to a reasonable level of strength by the time they reached the station house. Remembering to keep his movements shaky, letting the two men take as much of his weight as they were willing to, he started walking.

  They had taken five steps, and were passing beneath one of the streetlights, when a section of sidewalk two yards in front of them exploded.

  Fierenzo twitched reflexively as a thundercrack and a cloud of concrete dust washed over him. An instant later he lost his balance completely as his captors yanked him backward and twisted him around the other direction, hustling him back the way they'd come. They hadn't taken more than two steps when a second sledgehammer blow shattered another section of sidewalk, again a couple of yards ahead of them.

  The two men got the message. They brought Fierenzo to a halt; and then, even as Nose hauled the detective out of his sag, Curly let go entirely and took off at a dead run down the sidewalk, zigzagging like a soldier crossing an enemy field of fire. Nose swiveled Fierenzo around again, this time to face the street, and shifted to a one-armed hold beneath his rib cage. His other hand snaked around to join it, and for a moment he seemed to be fiddling with something just beneath Fierenzo's sternum. His hands separated; and Fierenzo winced as a gleaming, short-bladed knife flashed int
o view, clutched in Nose's right hand. It waved in front of his eyes a moment, a silent warning to behave himself, then came to rest against his throat. "Show yourself or the cop dies!" he shouted past Fierenzo's ear.

  The only answer was another crack of exploding sidewalk, this one a yard to their right, followed by another the same distance to their left. Fierenzo strained his eyes against the glare of the streetlight and the headlights of the oblivious drivers zooming past, trying to spot the shooter.

  But there were no figures moving around in the shadows of the buildings across the street, and no obvious silhouettes in any of the windows. Another chunk of pavement disintegrated to their right without even a hint of a muzzle flash that he could see.

  Nose apparently couldn't find the shooter, either. He snarled something under his breath and again shifted grip, this time grabbing a handful of Fierenzo's hair and yanking his head up and back to expose his throat more conveniently to the knife. "Last chance!" he shouted. He hauled Fierenzo backward, and there was a metallic rustle as he brushed up against the playground fence. "Show yourself!"

  Fierenzo stiffened. With his face pointed upward at this new angle he couldn't see what, if anything, was going on with the shooter across the street.

  But he was in perfect position to see the shadowy figure that glided silently across the night sky above the glare of the streetlights to his right, dropping toward the playground behind him.

  He barely had time to wonder whether he had imagined it when a voice came suddenly from across the street. "All right!" it called. "I'm here! Don't hurt him!"

  "There you are," Nose muttered. Taking a deep breath, he screamed.

  The earlier screams, aimed at Fierenzo from six feet away, had been bad enough. This one, bellowed practically in his ear, was a hundred times worse. His whole body stiffened and then turned to jelly, sagging him toward the ground in spite of the grip on his hair. Whereas before the world had seemed to twist around him, now it was as if he no longer had any direction at all. His chest and gut were a whirlpool of agony as his internal organs seemed to grate violently against each other. He wanted desperately to be sick but his stomach muscles couldn't even organize themselves enough to vomit.