by Timothy Zahn
And then, abruptly, a figure appeared in the middle of the drive ahead of him, the knife in his hand glittering in the headlights. Clenching his teeth, Roger jammed the accelerator to the floor. Caroline was counting on him; and somewhere out there, so was Melantha.
And just for once, he was damned if he was going to let either of them down.
The Green barely made it out of the way in time, diving sideways to safety behind a large tree. Roger kept going, dimly aware that he was going way too fast for the terrain and visibility, but no longer caring. He nearly missed the final left turn, but managed to make it with only a glancing blow against a small sapling at the intersection. Another Green was waiting just beyond the intersection, this one standing prudently off to the right, and as Roger gunned the engine his arm whipped over his head like a baseball pitcher throwing a fastball. Something thudded into the side of the car; and then Roger was past, driving hell for leather for the highway. There was another rise, another brief surge of weightlessness as the car went momentarily airborne before slamming with a protesting squeal back onto the gravel.
There it was, dead ahead. He hunched forward, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he braced himself. This would be their last chance to stop him....
And then, suddenly, he was at the end of the drive, standing on the brake pedal as he tried to slow down enough to make the turn. He caught a glimpse of another face as he swung the wheel hard, fishtailed a little as he straightened out, then floored the accelerator and pushed the Buick for all it was worth.
He was half a mile down the road before he realized he was holding his breath, and forced himself to inhale again. He was another half mile past that when he noticed his fingers had the wheel in a death grip, and that his jaw was frozen in something halfway between a scowl and a grin.
He was another mile past that when it occurred to him that he'd roared out onto the road without ever once checking to see if there was any other traffic.
He continued south, staying as far above the speed limit as the curves would allow. Fortunately, traffic was light. He came up behind only three other cars and passed all of them before reaching Route 28 and turning east. Traffic here was somewhat heavier, with fewer opportunities for passing, and he found himself swearing softly to himself every time he wound up trapped behind a slowmoving vehicle, tensing for the attack that must inevitably be waiting beyond the next curve.
But no attack came, and by the time he reached the Thruway he began to finally believe that he had in fact gotten away.
Which meant it was time to start figuring out what he was going to do next.
The obvious answer was to call the police. But the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if that would actually get him anywhere. Surely the Greens had had some experience dodging the law over the years. Besides, what could he say that would convince anyone he was telling the truth? He'd never seen the main house on the Green property, which meant he couldn't describe the place itself or even the road leading to it. He could probably identify the various Warriors who'd been directing traffic or lugging firewood; but when those same Greens could vanish into the nearest tree without a trace, that approach would be a dead end, too. He could take them to the cabin, but with a little effort Nikolos could probably erase everything that might corroborate his story. They could replace the missing floorboards and crawl space skirting, trade out the furniture with an entirely different set, maybe even resettle the dust so that the place would look as abandoned as it had when he and Caroline first arrived.
And if he took the authorities there and they found something different than he'd described, that would be the end of his credibility. After that, no amount of pleading would do any good.
Ahead, he could see the lights of a service area. He was still uncomfortably close to Green territory, but the car needed gas and he needed coffee and something to soothe an increasingly distracting acid stomach. A big place like this, with a lot of people around, was probably as safe as he was going to get.
He pulled in to the pumps, stuck his credit card in the slot, and filled the tank. Relocating to a parking space by the store, he went inside and bought a cup of coffee and a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich.
He had made it back to the car when there was a call from his right. "Hey! Buddy!"
He turned, tensing. The man was big and rough-looking, wearing a baseball cap and down vest over a set of denims, and was walking toward the store entrance with the stiff gait of someone who'd spent too long a stretch behind the wheel. "What?" Roger called back cautiously.
"Better check your hood ornament," the other said, jabbing a finger toward the far side of the Buick.
"Looks like it's slipped a little."
Roger frowned. Hood ornament? "Yeah, thanks," he said, wondering what in the world he was talking about.
The man nodded and disappeared into the store. Still frowning, Roger left his sandwich and coffee on the roof and circled around the front of the car.
There, sticking out of the fender, was another knife. So that was what that last thud had been as he tore along the drive. One final gift from the Greens.
An almost not-so-final gift, he realized with a shiver as he wiggled it free of the metal. Another foot forward, and it might well have punched a hole in the radiator reservoir. If it had, they could have simply strolled the mile or two it would have taken the car to overheat and die.
The new discovery reminded him he still had a knife sticking out of his trunk lid, as well. Walking around to the back, he pulled it free, then got the car open and tossed both knives onto the passenger seat. For all the supposed rarity of their damned trassks, he thought grimly, the Greens seemed more than willing to spend them trying to get him and Caroline out of their way. Retrieving his coffee and sandwich, he got in and locked the door behind him.
He sat there for a few minutes, watching the people going in and out of the store as he ate, a black anger chewing at him. They had Caroline, they might have Melantha, and the only cop who might have been willing to listen to his story had vanished. As far as Nikolos and his friends were concerned, Roger was the lone figure still standing against them. Roger, and the Grays.
The Grays.
He picked up one of the knives again, studying its texture as he turned it over in his hand. A few minutes or hours from now, and he wouldn't even have these to show any cop he tried to talk to.
They would have reverted back to elaborate pieces of jewelry, and nothing Roger could do would change them back again.
But the Grays wouldn't need any convincing. They already knew all about the Greens and their trassks. Having two more to show them might be all the proof he needed to convince them he was telling the truth.
And if part of that truth was that Nikolos had Melantha hidden away in the Catskills, he might just be able to persuade them to go up there and rescue his wife.
To rescue his wife... and to trade her life for Melantha's.
He stared at the knife, feeling cold as that realization hit him for the first time. Because that was exactly what he would be doing if he brought in the Grays. If they raided Nikolos's retreat and found Melantha there, she would die.
And he would have to face Caroline and tell her what he'd done.
With a soft curse, he tossed the knife back onto the seat and turned the key in the ignition. He was too tired to untangle his way through the ethics, too tired and too scared and too numb. He hadn't asked to be dropped into the middle of their war, and it wasn't up to him to figure out how to resolve it. All he knew was that Caroline was in danger, and that he would do whatever he had to in order to get her back safely. And if it cost Melantha's life...
He shook his mind sharply, refusing to finish that thought even in the privacy of his own mind.
Backing out of his parking space, he took the ramp back onto the Thruway. Torvald Gray, Greenwich Village artist, was about to have a visitor.
29
The Warriors sat Caroline back down o
n the couch, one of them standing guard over her while the other monitored the burning chair and continued to feed it deeper into the fireplace as necessary. By the time that task was finished, they had been joined by two more Warriors, all four of whom proceeded to stand silently around the cabin like a set of Macy's manikins. No one spoke, not even to answer her questions or respond to her comments, but she was able to pick up the tantalizing almostspeech that indicated they had plenty to say to each other. It was almost a relief when one of them suddenly announced that the Group Commander was ready to see her.
They set off through the woods, the four Warriors arrayed in a loose square around her. It was pitchblack outside, and her first reflexive thought was that this might be her chance to get away. But common sense quickly prevailed. The Greens would hardly let themselves be caught by surprise twice in one night, and wandering around blindly in a strange forest would be a complete waste of effort.
Besides, it was clear after the first dozen steps that her escorts had far better night vision than she did. They walked across the uneven terrain with casual confidence, while she spent much of her time hesitating and stumbling and batting branches away from her face. After a couple of near falls, one of the Warriors finally stepped close and took her arm, guiding her as he would a blind woman through the darkness.
But if she couldn't see very well, the sounds around her more than made up for it. Instead of the usual bird and insect noises, she could hear rustling bushes and grunts of exertion and voices calling to each other in an unfamiliar language.
The main house, when they finally reached it, was something of a surprise. It was larger than she'd expected, rambling outward in two angled wings and rising to three stories in places, set at the back of an expansive and well-kept lawn. Every window in the place seemed lit, and she could see half a dozen shadowy figures walking briskly toward and away from it. Without better light it was impossible to tell what kind of construction it was, but from the design and placement of the windows she guessed it was much older than the cabin, possibly even late 19th century.
Her escorts led her up the steps onto a wide porch and through a door flanked by ornate sidelights, with an equally ornate fanlight above it. Beyond the door was a large foyer, high-ceilinged, rimmed with carved pillars and sporting a hardwood floor. One of the Warriors detached himself from her side and stepped to a set of double doors leading off the foyer to the left. "In here," he said, pushing open one of the doors. "The Group Commander is waiting."
"Thank you," Caroline said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Stepping past him, she walked inside.
And stopped short. The room was a library, complete with built-in bookshelves filled with dark volumes in a variety of sizes. In the center of the room was a massive oak desk flanked by a pair of floor lamps with three antique bergere armchairs facing it.
But it wasn't the furnishings or the room itself that had startled her. It was, rather, the room's single occupant.
"Good evening, Caroline," the silver-haired woman said calmly, the soft glow from the lamps highlighting the deep age lines in her face. "I'm Group Commander Sylvia Green." She smiled slightly. "I take it I'm not exactly what you expected?"
Caroline found her voice. "I'm sorry," she said. "We've heard a lot about Green Warriors in the past couple of days. I guess I just assumed that they would all be men."
The woman shrugged. "The Gifts choose us," she said, rising to her feet and gesturing to one of the armchairs. "We do not choose them. Please; sit down."
"Thank you," Caroline said, frowning as the name suddenly clicked. "You said your name was Sylvia?"
"The same Sylvia your husband met at Aleksander's apartment, yes," the woman confirmed. "I presume that was your next question?"
"Yes, it was," Caroline said as she took one of the chairs. "I hope you aren't too angry about Roger's escape."
"It was embarrassing," Sylvia conceded as she resumed her seat. "But hardly fatal. There's nothing he can do to trouble us."
"Really," Caroline said politely. "Then why are your people all stirred up out there?"
"Stirred up?"
"Making noises in the night."
"Oh, that," Sylvia said. "They're just making your cabin disappear."
"They're what!"
"Not literally, of course," Sylvia assured her. "You may have noticed how narrow the side roads were that you drove along earlier today. The Laborers are merely brushing away the gravel at those intersections and quick-planting bushes across them. Even if Roger finds someone willing to listen to his story, he'll come back to find that none of the drives he described are there anymore."
Caroline felt her stomach tighten. "Clever," she managed.
"Deception has always been a part of warfare," Sylvia said with a shrug. "One of the many aspects of my Gift."
"An interesting Gift," Caroline murmured. "May I ask what you intend to do with me?"
"Nothing sinister, I assure you," Sylvia said. "You'll be kept here until it's all over, then be allowed to return to your home."
Caroline's throat tightened. "Assuming Manhattan is still there."
The lines in Sylvia's face deepened. "What exactly would you have us do, Caroline Human Whittier?" she demanded. "You speak as if we weren't the ones the Grays tried to exterminate, setting fire to our forest and coldbloodedly shooting as we tried to escape the flames. Should we simply lie down and die to keep from inconveniencing your people? Or should we make a stand and defend ourselves and our loved ones? What would you do in our place?"
"I might worry a little more about the innocents caught in the middle," Caroline told her. "Three thousand people died when the twin towers went down. How many buildings and lives are you planning to destroy in your defense?"
"Don't misunderstand me, Caroline," Sylvia said stiffly. "We're Warriors, not butchers. We will not inflict any more damage or death than necessary to protect our people. But if it comes to a choice between Green survival or a few lost Human lives... well, there is no choice there."
"Even if those lost humans are your own friends?" Caroline persisted.
"I have no Human friends," Sylvia said. "As a matter of fact, before I met you and Roger, I'm not sure I even knew any Humans by name."
"You're joking," Caroline said, looking at the other in surprise. "How long have you lived here?"
"I was one of the original refugees," Sylvia said. "Oh, and I knew Velovsky by name, too. But he was about the only Human I knew before you two."
"How in the world did you manage that?" Caroline asked, still not quite believing it. "I thought all of you moved into the city together."
"All except for a small group who came here," Sylvia said. "Leader Elymas wasn't entirely happy with the idea of living in a city, so he sent our group to look into the possibility of a more permanent home."
"I thought he died before you even left Ellis Island."
"He did, but he'd seen the Farseers' visions and knew what to expect," Sylvia said. "Actually, to be precise, it was his son Nikolos who relayed his instructions to us. Leader Elymas was too far gone to speak during his final hours, and Nikolos was the only one who could still communicate with him and interpret his messages."
"What do you mean, interpret?" Caroline asked. "I thought you have a direct mind-to-mind link."
"We do, but some things transfer better than others," Sylvia said. "Words and simple sentences usually work, and emotions are seldom misunderstood. But images and abstract ideas can be difficult, both to send and to receive. Sometimes only those who know each other well can manage it without distortion. Pastsingers and Farseers do much better than the average, of course, but they're a small minority."
"I see," Caroline said, nodding. "I've been wondering why you bothered with speech at all."
"If we could communicate clearly and consistently without it, we would," Sylvia said. "At any rate, I've sent for some food, and then you'll be taken to your room."
"Thank you," Caroline said. "I'm still
not clear as to why you haven't had more contact with humans.
Don't you like us?"
"I neither like nor dislike you," Sylvia said candidly. "It's simply that I've spent my life here in the woods, preparing this place for future generations. I just never got around to making contact with the locals."
The door opened behind her, and Caroline turned to see a Green step into the room with a box the size of a half-pound chocolate sampler in his hand. "Your meal," Sylvia identified it. "I'm afraid it's all we have to offer."
"Thank you," Caroline said, eyeing the box dubiously as the Green handed it to her. She opened the lid and found herself gazing at a double row of tubes the size of granola bars and the shape of manicotti. "What are they?"
"Warrior field rations," Sylvia told her. "Designed to keep a Green healthy and strong during long campaigns."
"I see." Closing the box, Caroline set it on the edge of the desk. "I'm sorry, but it won't do."
It was clearly not the response Sylvia had been expecting. "I'm sorry?" she asked.
"I said it won't do," Caroline repeated. "Food designed to keep Greens alive could be dangerous or even lethal to humans."
"Nonsense," Sylvia said stiffly. "Greens eat human food all the time. I ate some there myself, in fact, at Aleksander's. It's never bothered any of us."
"So Greens can eat human food," Caroline said. "That doesn't mean it necessarily works the other direction." She gestured toward the box. "For all either of us know, there may be trace chemicals or vitamin concentrations in there that would kill me." She lifted her eyebrows. "Unless, of course, Nikolos wants me dead."
"Don't be absurd," Sylvia said, throwing a scowl at the other Green. Without a word, he retrieved the box and left. "Unfortunately, as I said, that's all we have."