The Green And The Gray

13

The sun was just coming up over Queens, and Fierenzo and Powell had been sitting in the stakeout car for half an hour, when the Whittiers finally made their move. "There they are," Fierenzo announced, nudging his partner as he peered back over his shoulder.

"Where?" Powell asked, turning around.

"Cab," Fierenzo said succinctly, pointing to the vehicle that had pulled up in front of the apartment building behind them. A moment later the Whittiers appeared, the husband going straight to the cab's back door and opening it. To Fierenzo's mild surprise, though, the wife headed instead across the street.

"Where the hell is she going?" Powell muttered.

"Looks like she's revisiting the crime scene," Fierenzo said, frowning as she stepped over the low fence and waded her way through the bushes to the tree with the broken-off limb. Crouching over, she leaned her face right up to the bark. "Looking for something, maybe?" he added.

"If she is, she's talking to herself while she's doing it," Powell told him.

"You're right," Fierenzo agreed, frowning harder as he watched the woman's lips. Movement, then a pause; then movement, then another pause. As if she was saying something and then waiting for an answer.

An answer that apparently wasn't coming. Thirty seconds later she gave up and turned back toward her husband and the cab. "Here they come," he said, swiveling back to face forward and turning the key. The engine sputtered for a moment and then caught, blowing cold air through the vents at them.

In the mirror he watched as the Whittiers climbed into the cab and the driver pulled away from the curb. It passed Fierenzo and Powell and headed for the next street, its left turn signal flashing. "Here we go," Fierenzo muttered, pulling out onto the street as the cab slowed for the turn. "Five bucks says they're going for the FDR—"

"Hold it," Powell interrupted, pointing to their right. Beyond the tall fence that encircled the park, a dark-haired man was running toward them, waving both arms frantically. "What's he doing in there with the gate still locked?" Powell muttered.

"See what he wants," Fierenzo said, glancing toward the cab as it disappeared around the corner.

"Maybe we can call it in and keep going."

Powell cranked down the window, letting in a fresh flood of cold air. "What's the matter?" he called.

The man skidded to a halt, opened his mouth, and screamed.

Fierenzo jerked as the sound hammered through his head, the car leaping beneath him like a bucking horse. The wheel twisted in his hands, the street and park and whole damn city tilting sideways as up and down suddenly lost their meaning. Dimly over the sound he heard Powell yelling something—

And then the world straightened out; and with a rush of adrenaline he saw he was headed straight for the curb.

He twisted the wheel, but it was too late. With a spine-jolting bounce the car careened up over the curb and rolled itself up against a lamppost.

"You okay?" Fierenzo asked, shaking his head to clear it.

"Yeah," Powell grunted, sounding as dazed as Fierenzo felt. "Hell—there he goes."

The man had reversed direction and was running back across the park toward the fence at the far side. "Oh, no, he doesn't," Fierenzo growled, popping his seat belt and shoving open his door.

Scrambling awkwardly out against the upward tilt, he hit the ground and charged across the street.

He'd heard echoes of that same scream last night, and he had no intention of letting this one get away.

He was across the street and making for the gate when his quarry spun around in mid-run and let loose with another scream.

He was at least twice as far away from Fierenzo as he'd been the first time, but the extra distance didn't seem to make a bit of difference. Once again the ground tilted violently; and this time, with no car wrapped protectively around him, he fell face first toward the iron fence. More by luck than anything else, he managed to grab one of the bars, halting his forward momentum and giving him something to hang onto as the world took itself on another spin. A moment later, without any memory of having fallen the rest of the way, he found himself lying on the ground. Blinking away the last few sparkling stars, he lifted his head and looked around.

The man had disappeared.

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps, and he swiveled around on his hip as Powell dropped to a crouch beside him, gun in hand as he stared through the fence into the park. "Where'd he go?" he demanded.

"What are you asking me for?" Fierenzo grunted, using the fence for balance as he pulled himself back to his feet. "Weren't you watching?"

"Of course I was," Powell said disgustedly, giving Fierenzo an assist with his free hand. "Right to the point where he ran behind one of the trees, and that was the last I saw of him. You okay?"

"I think so," Fierenzo said, rubbing his palms against his pant legs to dry them as he peered through the fence. The man had vanished, all right, just like Melantha and the old woman from last night.

This was starting to get very annoying. "That song of his sound familiar?"

"Like the one we heard last night," Powell confirmed. "Reminds me of those nonlethal sonic weapons the military's been playing around with."

"Only this guy was doing it without assistance," Fierenzo said.

"Unless he had something hidden under his coat."

"Maybe," Fierenzo said, looking down the street. "Regardless, he's given the Whittiers a nice little head start on the day."

"So they've been lying the whole time," Powell said sourly. "Damn. I'd been hoping they really were just innocent bystanders."

"Don't give up on them just yet," Fierenzo cautioned. "People smart enough to successfully lie to experienced cops like us should also be smart enough not to make their getaway in a cab with big numbers plastered all over it."

"Good point," Powell said, frowning. "It's almost like they didn't even know we were here."

Fierenzo nodded. "Which suggests our friend with the noisemaker may have been running interference without their knowledge."

"Cyril?"

"Or Aleksander, or Sylvia, or someone whose name we haven't heard yet," Fierenzo said. "Take your pick."

Powell grimaced. "Who the hell are these people, anyway?"

"I don't know, but we're going to find out," Fierenzo promised, trudging around the car and climbing into the driver's seat. "Come on, let's see if we can get this thing unstuck."

"Nothing, I take it?" Roger asked as the cab pulled away from the curb.

Caroline shook her head, trying hard not to berate herself for not trying to find Melantha last night.

She tried equally hard not to blame Roger for talking her out of doing so. "If she was there, she isn't anymore."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I guess we should have gone looking for her last night."

Caroline didn't answer.

It was still early in the morning, with traffic sparse by New York standards, and the cabby got them down to 14th Street in probably close to record time. After that, it was a straight shot west to Jackson Square.

They didn't ride the entire way, though. Remembering yesterday's traceable cab ride, Caroline insisted they get off at Fifth Avenue and walk a couple of blocks north before turning west and making for their true destination. It was too early to go knocking on apartment doors, so again at her suggestion they found a deli and went inside for breakfast.

The meal was a quiet one. Somehow, everything Caroline saw around her—from the cheeses to the thin-sliced meats to the serving girl's dark hair—reminded her of Melantha. Roger was equally quiet as he plowed through his bagel and coffee, but whether he was thinking along the same lines she didn't know.

They emerged from the deli a little after eight to find that the early-morning sunshine had disappeared behind a ceiling of dark clouds and a light rain was falling. "Perfect," Roger muttered, glancing around and heading for a street vendor with a rack of compact umbrellas prominently displayed beside his magazines and packaged snack foods.

"You don't need to buy that for me," Caroline told him as he picked out a black one and dug into his pocket for some cash.

"It's not just for you, sweetheart," Roger assured her, taking her arm with his free hand and popping open the umbrella with the other. "See?" he said, lifting it over their heads and pulling her close beside him. "Instant anonymity."

"Ah," she said, finally understanding. "Good idea."

"Thank you," Roger said. "Let's just hope the rain keeps up."

Velovsky's building turned out to be an old brick structure right across the street from the Jackson Square park. They found the proper intercom button, and with only a slight hesitation Roger pushed it.

The reply came with surprising promptness. "Yes?"

"We're looking for Otto Velovsky," Roger said into the grille.

"You've found him," the voice said briskly. A middle-aged voice, Caroline guessed, belonging to a man probably in his mid-fifties. "Who are you?"

"Roger and Caroline Whittier," Roger said. "We were told—"

"Apartment four-twelve," the other cut him off.

The door buzzed, and Roger pushed it open. The staircase was off to the side, and they climbed to the fourth floor. One of the doors opened as they approached, and a man stepped into the doorway.

He wasn't the fifty-something man Caroline had expected. He was in fact at least thirty years older than that, with a lined face, a slender build, and a fringe of pure white hair.

"Come in," he said, beckoning with bony fingers, and Caroline revised her estimate upward even further. Lower nineties at the youngest, possibly even pushing ninety-five, but apparently still quite spry. With Roger's hand gripping her arm nervously, they stepped past him and went inside.

"We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Velovsky," Caroline said, glancing around the living room as the old man closed the door behind them. The decor was quite homey, with antique-style furniture, a dark carpet, and tasteful wallpaper patterned with small abstract figures.

There were a couple of framed prints on the wall, and a computer hummed away in a rolltop desk in the far corner. Beside the computer was a mug of gently steaming coffee. "I hope we're not intruding."

"Not at all," Velovsky assured her, waving them toward a couch with lace-fringed throw pillows scattered around it. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks," Roger put in, his voice sounding a little strained as he glanced around. "You and Aleksander must use the same decorator."

"Like minds run in like ways," Velovsky said, retrieving his mug from the computer desk and settling into a wing-backed chair across a low coffee table from the couch. "Please; sit down."

"What exactly did Aleksander tell you about us?" Roger asked as they sat down together on the couch.

"Nothing at all," Velovsky said. "He simply told me I was to tell you everything." His bright eyes shone as he looked back and forth between them. "I trust you recognize the honor implicit in that request. Aside from me, you'll be the first humans to hear the whole story."

Caroline felt a shiver run through her. She and Roger had speculated about who the Greens and Grays might be, and had more or less concluded they weren't human. But she hadn't really accepted that conclusion, at least not on a gut level.

Until now.

"We're listening," Roger prompted.

"I'm sure you are." Velovsky took a sip from his mug and set it down on the table. "The year was

1928," he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he leaned back in his chair. "Shiploads of Europeans were pouring weekly into the immigration office on Ellis Island, where I was a very junior forms processing clerk. At about ten-thirty in the morning on a rather warm July twentyseventh, I was sent downstairs to one of the storerooms for a fresh box of medical release forms. I was heading down the hallway when I saw the door to one of the other storerooms standing wide open and a line of dark-haired people coming out of it."

"Not fellow employees, I presume?" Roger hazarded.

"Worse than that," Velovsky said. "That particular room wasn't much bigger than a broom closet.

Clown cars might have been all the rage at Ringling Brothers; but ten people had already come out, and I knew you couldn't get that many people in there.

"Well, they saw me the same time I saw them, and they weren't any happier about it than I was. The first two in line—big, slender fellows, but with plenty of muscle—came toward me like a pair of lions sizing up the gazelle du jour. They did something with their hands, and suddenly each was sporting a long-bladed and very nasty-looking knife. That was when I realized I was in serious trouble."

"And they killed you, of course," Roger murmured under his breath.

"Shh!" Caroline murmured back. "Let him tell it his own way."

"Yes, Roger, do be patient," Velovsky said. "I've been rehearsing this tale for over seventy-five years, and this is the first time I've been allowed to tell it. Let me savor it a little."

Roger waved a hand. "Sorry."

"Thank you," Velovsky said. "At any rate, an older man in the group said something in a foreign language and beckoned me over to where he and a young boy—his twelve-year-old son, I found out later—were standing. With all those knives around me, I decided I'd better do what he wanted. As I came up, he reached out a hand to my forehead and... touched me."

Velovsky stopped, his eyes drifting to the cityscape outside the window. "I've been trying ever since then to put words to what happened," he said, his voice as distant as his gaze. "But I still haven't found the proper way to do it. It was like I was inside his mind, and he was inside mine, and we were speaking together in the basic underlying core language of the human soul. I could remember his memories; image and sound, smell, touch, and taste. I was looking over his shoulder as he thought, watching his logic and his multiple trains of thought. It was exhilarating and terrifying, alien beyond imagination, twisted and confusing and yet as comfortable as an old sweater."

Reluctantly, Caroline thought, he brought his eyes back to focus. "They called themselves the Greens. There were sixty of them, refugees from another world."

"Which one?" Caroline asked.

"They don't know," Velovsky said. "The stars here are nearly identical to those they could see from their home, though there are a number of subtle differences."

"An astrophysicist might be able to pin it down," Roger suggested. "They could draw up some star maps for comparison."

"They could also announce their presence on the eleven o'clock news," Velovsky said tartly.

"They're trying to keep a low profile, if you hadn't already guessed."

"But if they don't know where they are, how did they get here?" Caroline asked. "Did they lose their charts afterward?"

"They didn't have any charts," Velovsky said. "Or navigators, either, at least not the way we use the term. Back on their world their remaining Farseers had been able to pull up images of Earth, and their Leaders decided this was where they would go. The Farseers and remaining Groundshakers were able to throw the transport through space to Earth, bringing it out in the Atlantic somewhere off Long Island."

"How long did the trip take?" Roger asked.

Velovsky shrugged. "Apparently instantaneous. The transport was capable of underwater travel, so they brought it to the base of Ellis Island, buried it partway in the silt, and dug a tunnel up to the storage room."

"Have you seen this transport yourself?" Caroline asked.

Velovsky nodded. "I was feeling woozy after that contact—so was the Leader, for that matter—so they took us back to the transport to rest while the Lifesingers did some quick healing. I've been down several times since then, just visiting. They use it as a sort of hydroponics farm to grow some of their native herbs and spices."

"What's it like?" Roger asked.

"Relatively small, but nicely laid out," Velovsky said. "The fact that it matched with the mental images I'd just been given helped convince me that everything else he'd shown me was genuine, too."

He smiled. "My boss chewed me out royally when I finally got back upstairs," he added. "He was particularly mad that he couldn't figure out where I'd disappeared to. If he'd only known."

"Sounds like a lot of unnecessary risk, sneaking into Ellis that way," Roger pointed out. "Why not just come in along the coast of Maine or something?"

"I don't know how the decision was made," Velovsky said. "I do know they chose the United States deliberately, and I can only assume they'd decided that if they were going to live here they should be official about it. The Greens always look at the long-term aspects."

"Is Aleksander the Leader you met?" Roger asked.

"Aleksander's a Persuader, not a Leader," Velovsky said.

"Can't he be both?"

"Actually, no, he can't," Velovsky said. "Or rather, a Leader is a Persuader, but the Persuader Gift has to be combined with the Gift of Visionary. They don't have any true Leaders or Visionaries at the moment, and Persuaders are next in line. It's not ideal, but it's the best they have right now."

"But the one you met was a true Leader?" Caroline asked.

Velovsky nodded. "Leader Elymas, who unfortunately died within a week of reaching New York.

I've often wondered if the strain of sharing his mind with me was part of what killed him." His lip twitched. "Or maybe I absorbed a share of his strength and stamina along with those thoughts. I've certainly aged more gracefully than most of my contemporaries."

"So if Aleksander is their acting leader, what's the story with Cyril?" Roger asked.

Velovsky grimaced. "Unfortunately, the lack of a true Leader has allowed two factions to form among the Greens," he said. "Aleksander and Cyril each lead one of them."

"And what's Cyril's job?" Roger continued. "Is he a Persuader, too?"

"They're Gifts, not positions, "Velovsky corrected. "Special talents Greens are born with that define what they're going to be as adults. And yes, Cyril is also a Persuader."

"What did you mean by the remaining Farseers and Groundshakers?" Caroline asked. "Was there some sort of catastrophe on their world?"

"There was indeed," Velovsky said, the corners of his mouth tightening. "Their entire civilization was nearly wiped out in a devastating war."

"Let me guess," Roger said, his voice graveyard dark. "They were at war with a people who called themselves the Grays."

"Very good," Velovsky said bitterly. "The same Grays, in fact, who now threaten to destroy everything the Greens have spent the last seventy-five years building. They want to begin the war all over again, to finish what they started on their home world.

"And to perhaps destroy this world in the process."