by Timothy Zahn
"I'll settle for a description," Nikolos persisted. "Starting with whether he was a Green or a Gray."
"That's an odd question," she said. "I thought all the Grays wanted her dead. Why would any of them stick his neck out to rescue her?"
For a moment Nikolos stared hard into her eyes. Then, reluctantly, he lowered his gaze. "Let me lay my cards on the table," he said, rubbing at his cheek. Clean-shaven at two in the morning, Caroline noted absently. Either that, or else Greens simply didn't have much facial hair in the first place. "It's been learned that a Gray named Jonah McClung, who was assigned to sentry duty at Sara D.
Roosevelt Park, has been shirking his duty while his younger brother Jordan covered for him."
"And this information comes from where?"
Nikolos lifted his eyebrows. "So you recognize the names?"
"I've never heard either of them," Caroline said. "I just wanted to know the source before I put any effort into thinking about it."
"It was Halfdan Gray's people who discovered there was something odd going on with Jonah,"
Nikolos said. "When they began to suspect it might have something to do with Melantha's disappearance, Halfdan informed Cyril, who then informed me."
"And you trust this Halfdan?"
"As far as I trust any Gray," Nikolos said. "Halfdan and Cyril are the ones who worked out the original peace agreement between our peoples."
"The one that involved Melantha's murder."
Nikolos's lip twitched. "Yes. What I need from you is anything that would either confirm Jonah was the one involved or else clear him so that we can stop wasting time looking for him."
"What do you mean, looking for him?" Caroline asked, frowning. "Don't you keep track of the Grays?"
"Not as well as we thought, obviously," Nikolos said sourly. "Both Jonah and his brother seem to have gone to ground somewhere. Halfdan has repeatedly tried to contact them, but they're refusing to answer."
"Maybe they can't," Caroline suggested. "Maybe Aleksander got to them, the same way someone got to Melantha."
"Or maybe it's Jonah and Jordan themselves who have Melantha," Nikolos countered. "Tell me what happened Wednesday."
"Why?" Caroline asked. "So you can find Melantha and use her to destroy our city?"
Nikolos took a deep breath. "Listen to me, Caroline," he said, lowering his voice. "Things are not the way you think. I give you my word that if we get Melantha back she won't have to do anything to anyone. Not to the Grays; not to your city."
"I thought she was the keystone of your defense."
"Nonetheless, I give you my word," Nikolos repeated. "Melantha won't have to do anything in this war."
Caroline stared at him, her skin prickling as the pieces suddenly fell together. "Oh, my God," she murmured. "Damian is another Groundshaker."
"Who told you that?" Nikolos asked sharply.
"You did," Caroline told him. "You said you didn't need Melantha because you had Damian."
For a long moment Nikolos gazed at her. "Sylvia was right," he murmured at last. "You're more perceptive than I thought."
"So it was a fraud from the very beginning, wasn't it?" Caroline said, feeling cold all over. "You never intended to use Melantha against the Grays at all."
"Of course we intended to use her," Nikolos said. "But not as a weapon. She's still too weak and unpredictable in her Gift."
"But not too weak to be used as a decoy," Caroline said. "Someone to distract the Grays and keep their eyes away from this place and Damian."
"You make it sound so harsh," Nikolos reproved her. "Aleksander and I knew from the beginning that the Grays would never let us live in peace, that the minute they found an opportunity they would move to exploit it. But we also knew Cyril would never believe that until it was demonstrated."
"So you figured you'd lull the Grays by letting him kill Melantha," Caroline said acidly. "Never mind that it would cost the life of an innocent young girl."
Nikolos shook his head. "You must understand that what we do, we do for the best," he said, his voice strangely earnest. "Yes, it would cost Melantha her life; but once she'd been sacrificed and the Grays moved to attack, Cyril would finally recognize his error and rejoin us. At that point, we could bring Damian in and gain a swift victory over our enemies. With her life, Melantha would have purchased a lasting peace for her people."
"Such a noble plan," Caroline bit out. "Too bad someone had to go and ruin it."
Nikolos drew himself up in his chair. "I've been patient with you up to now, Caroline," he said, his voice tight. "I've assumed you've been so fixated on Melantha that you couldn't see the big picture.
But now you know what's at stake, and what must happen if our people are to survive. I've assured you that Melantha will live; I've assured you that we'll do everything possible to win a quick victory over the Grays and thereby cause as little collateral damage as possible. But I will know who delivered Melantha to you."
Caroline shook her head. "No."
"I could remind you that Melantha herself agreed with the decision."
"I could remind you that twelve-year-olds usually do what adults tell them," Caroline countered, getting to her feet. "Sorry you wasted the drive up here. Good night, Commander Nikolos."
His lip twitched. "Good night, Caroline."
She turned her back on him, passed through the doorway and between the silent Warriors, and returned to her room. Two minutes later, she was back under the blankets, staring at the play of light across the ceiling and wondering dully if the war games had resumed on the other side of the house.
So it had been for nothing. All of it. Whether Melantha lived or died; whether she or Roger or Fierenzo lived or died or succeeded or failed—none of it mattered. From the very beginning Nikolos had had his plan in place for the Grays' destruction.
And there was nothing she could do to stop him. He was a Command-Tactician; and as Green Laborers and Warriors were the best in their fields, he was surely the best in his. He would have thought of every move that could possibly be made against him, and would already have a contingency in place to counter it.
She took a deep breath, fighting back the despair threatening to drown her. No, she told herself firmly. It hadn't been for nothing. They'd helped keep Melantha alive, at least for a few days, and they'd unearthed this vital bit of information about Damian and gotten Roger back to the outside world with it. That had to be at least moderately disruptive to Nikolos's neat plans. Maybe Roger was talking to the police or the Grays at this very moment, in fact, proposing or cajoling or arguing them into taking some kind of action.
Or maybe he wasn't, she realized with a sinking feeling. Roger, argue someone into action? Hardly.
That would require him to deliberately walk into a confrontation, and he avoided confrontations like the plague itself.
Or did he?
She frowned at the ceiling, the events of the past few days playing across her memory. Roger standing up to Ingvar and Bergan until the two Grays literally forced them off Greenwich Avenue at gunpoint. Roger driving past, around, possibly even through Green Warriors to get out of here and go for help. For that matter, Roger refusing to tell Sylvia or Torvald or Nikolos anything about Melantha in the first place.
Maybe it wasn't that he avoided conflicts because he wasn't man enough to stand up for himself.
Maybe it was simply that he avoided the petty and unnecessary ones, saving his focus for those that were important. Maybe she just hadn't seen him before in a situation where he had to take this kind of aggressive moral stand.
If true, it was something she'd never known about him. But then, perhaps he hadn't realized it about himself. The quiet routine of their normal lives didn't lend itself to heroics, after all. Maybe he'd never before had anything this important to measure himself against.
Throwing off the blankets, she got out of bed and crossed to the chair where she'd put her purse. A
little probing, and she came up with her p
en and the pack of chewing gum she kept for the people in her office who seemed perennially in the throes of cigarette withdrawal. The bedroom curtains weren't thick enough to keep out curious eyes, but the bathroom window was made of frosted glass.
Taking the pen and gum in there, she closed the door and turned on the light.
There wasn't a lot of writing space on the silvery paper that came wrapped around a single stick of gum. But years of filling out real estate forms had given her plenty of practice in microscopic writing.
Roger: Damian Groundshaker, ready move on NYC—time unknown. Melantha not here. Sylvia Group Com in charge. Don't bring Grays. I love you, C.
She added their home phone number and laid her pen aside, gazing down at the note. There was so much more she wanted to say to him. So much more she needed to say. But there was no room for inessentials like love and hope and trust. Carefully, she refolded the paper around the gum and slid it back inside its outer wrapper. She would just have to hope that they would both make it through to the other end of this alive, and she could say it in person.
Turning off the light, she left the bathroom and returned the gum and pen to her purse. Then, one final time, she climbed wearily into bed. It was time to get some rest, and to prepare herself for the crucial day ahead.
34
"Well?" Fierenzo asked as the five of them stood beside a tall granite boulder on the edge of the steep hill. "Does it work, or doesn't it?"
"It works, I suppose," Jonah said, sounding a little doubtful as he peered between the trees with a compact set of binoculars. "I can see a corner of the main house, if that's really the Green estate we're looking at down there. If I can see it, we can theoretically get there."
"Pretty bumpy landing from this high up, though," Jordan added, sounding even more doubtful than his older brother. "I'd vote for someplace closer."
"Get too close and you're likely to run into a picket line," Fierenzo warned. "Anyway, there's not going to be any sliding, bumpy or otherwise. You're here to watch and listen and, if necessary, make it sound like we brought a small army with us."
Beside Roger, Laurel shivered. "But that's an absolute last resort," Fierenzo added, glancing at her.
"And only on Roger's direct order."
"Understood," Jonah said. "Be careful."
"Trust me," Fierenzo said wryly. "Okay, Laurel. Your turn."
A few minutes later Laurel was curled in a sort of fetal position inside the Buick's trunk, completely covered by the old emergency blanket Caroline kept back there, the outline of her body camouflaged by the various department store bags Fierenzo had scattered strategically around her. "You okay?" he asked, repositioning the bags one final time.
"I'm fine," her muffled voice came.
"Okay," Fierenzo said. "Remember, now, you're only supposed to listen for Melantha's voice. No calling out on your own. We don't want them spotting you, and we definitely don't want them identifying you."
"I know," she said. "Let's get this over with."
"Right." Closing the lid, Fierenzo headed for the passenger door. "And you two watch yourselves," he added to Jonah and Jordan. "I don't want some Green Warrior sneaking up and sticking a knife in one of you. Let's go, Roger."
Roger got behind the wheel and turned the car back down the winding road toward the main highway below. "You've been pretty quiet the last twenty miles," Fierenzo commented as he drove.
"I've been thinking about some of the things I've said to Caroline in the past few weeks," Roger admitted. "Some of the things I've thought even when I was smart enough not to say anything."
"What sorts of things?"
Roger shook his head. "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes she just doesn't seem to think, I guess. Or we're getting ready to go somewhere and she suddenly heads off to do something at the last minute that she could have done anytime that afternoon."
"Mm," Fierenzo said. "How long have you been married?"
"Four years," Roger told him. "Seems longer sometimes."
Fierenzo chuckled. "Trust me, you're hardly even started. She's a real estate agent, right? You need a certain amount of brainpower to handle a job like that, wouldn't you say?"
"Of course," Roger said. "I didn't mean—"
"She gets along well with people, too?" Fierenzo went on. "Mixes well at parties, puts strangers at their ease—that sort of thing?"
"Yes, that too," Roger agreed.
"Remembers anniversaries and birthdays and when each of her nieces lost their first tooth?"
"Uh... yeah, I think so."
"And she's better at all this than you are?"
Roger grimaced. "Probably."
"Well, see, there's your problem," Fierenzo said. "You just don't understand how your wife thinks."
Roger snorted. "Careful," he said, only half jokingly. "You get tossed into sensitivity training these days for saying things like that."
"I'm a detective," Fierenzo countered. "Part of my job is to understand people and learn what makes them tick." He shrugged. "Not to mention twenty-two years of marriage to that same kind of woman."
"So enlighten me," Roger said. "How does she think?"
"Let's start with you," Fierenzo said. "If you're like me—and I think you are—you think in terms of numbers and facts and problems and solutions. We approach life as a set of difficulties and puzzles that have to be conquered. True?"
Roger thought it over. That did seem to be how he looked at things. "I guess so," he said. "And Caroline doesn't?"
"Nope," Fierenzo said. "I mean, she probably can do that if she needs to. But most of the time she looks at the world in terms of relationships. Relationships between people; relationships between events; how individual parts combine to make the whole. You as a contract-law paralegal probably see your job in terms of statute and case law and contract details. Caroline, if she was doing it, would probably see it in terms of who was in difficulty and how they could be helped and what the consequences would be for them and their families of her doing a good job. You see the difference?
You'd both ultimately accomplish the same thing, but you'd have approached it from different mental angles."
"Yes, I see," Roger murmured, thinking hard. This was something that had never occurred to him before.
"Like I said, my wife's the same way, and early on it sometimes drove me nuts," Fierenzo went on.
"But I've learned how to take advantage of it. Since she sees things differently, she can often fill in the gaps and blind spots in my own mental vision. I can't even count the number of times I've been discussing some brass walnut of a case with her when she's made a comment that suddenly threw light on something I either hadn't noticed or hadn't considered the right way."
"So when Caroline waters plants at the last minute...?"
"She's probably got her plants connected mentally to something that also connects to the two of you going out," Fierenzo told him. "It's a convenient relationship, and it works, so she sticks to it."
"But we're always late," Roger argued.
"Are you?" Fierenzo countered. "Or are you just not as early as you'd like?"
Roger frowned. "Well... mostly the latter, I guess. So how does this connect to her always losing things?"
"Probably a matter of her focusing on one thing and not paying attention to everything else,"
Fierenzo said. "It doesn't all have to connect, you know."
"I guess not," Roger said, a stray memory flitting crossing his mind: Stephanie, in the hotel room last night, pointing out that Green and Gray minds didn't work the same way, but that neither was better or worse than the other. "Just different," he murmured.
"What?"
"Nothing," Roger said. "I'm going to have to think about this some more."
"You do that," Fierenzo said. "But do it later. Right now, concentrate on your upcoming performance."
"I'm frantic, insistent, and frustrated that you won't believe me."
"Right, but don't overdo it," Fierenzo warned.
"You're also tired and scared, and that saps a lot of a person's emotional strength. In this kind of show, less is more."
Ahead, Roger could see the highway cutting across the end of the mountain road they were on.
"When should I start?"
"Right now," Fierenzo said, pulling out his gun and giving it a quick check before returning it to its holster. "They may have sentries or observers posted anywhere from this point on. They might as well get a glimpse of the Angry Citizen with his jutting jaw."
"Right." Roger took a deep breath. "It's show time."
"Check," Sylvia said, moving her bishop three squares over to attack Caroline's king. "Wait a minute. Is it check, or checkmate?"
"Let me see," Caroline said, studying the board. It was probably the latter, considering her own level of skill at this game. She'd always been terrible at chess, and this morning's matches had certainly not raised her average any. "It's checkmate, all right. Congratulations."
"Thank you," Sylvia said, eyeing her with mock suspicion. "You're not just letting me win, are you?"
"I won the first two," Caroline reminded her, starting to reset the board for another game. "I told you that this was a Warrior's game."
"That it is," Sylvia agreed, starting to reset her pieces as well.
Caroline smiled to herself. Yes, she was doing terribly. But then, the goal here had never been for her to win. She'd discovered the board and pieces tucked away in a back corner of her closet earlier that morning, along with a badminton bird and a deck of dog-eared cards with four missing, and had suggested to Sylvia that it was a game she might find enjoyable. One of the rooks turned out to be missing, but a stack of quarters from her purse had solved that problem, and they'd settled down in the library to give it a try.
As she'd expected, Sylvia had taken to the game like a cat to canaries. She'd had the moves down cold after the first game, was starting to learn the necessary strategy by the second, and had figured out counters to most of Caroline's meager repertoire of tricks by the third. Now, with the sixth game just ended, she was showing all the enthusiasm of a kid with a new toy.