Bitter Seeds mt-1

by Ian Tregillis

  The needle bit into his waist at a shallow angle. Will worked his thumb and forefinger up the flexible tube, dispensing every drop of the precious morphine tartrate into his bloodstream. The injection stung for a few seconds, but then he couldn't tell if it ached or not.

  He tossed the empty syrette back in the drawer. A second dose followed the first. Warmth flowed through him like sunlight, like molten gold. Through his belly, across his chest, into his heart and out to the rest of his body. It washed away the pain in his finger, quelled his shivering. He could breathe again. Even here, underwater.

  The second syrette slipped through his fingers. It hit the floor tube-first, bounced, and then plinked as the needle wedged itself between the floorboards.

  There was something important he had to do.

  Something about a barge on the Thames. Something about the Eidolons, about a price. Something about a war.

  10 May 1941

  Walworth, London, England

  A gnes's first birthday.

  Candles and Liv singing, cake and streamers and a delighted, bewildered little girl. That's what today was meant to be. Instead, it dawned to find Marsh standing just outside the door of what had been his home, a key in one hand and an envelope in the other.

  His shirt stuck to his back and shoulders. It bunched up when he moved, like a bedsheet twisted during fevered sleep or frantic lovemaking. Covering the final mile on foot—lest the taxi wake Liv—had left his covered skin moist with sweat. Yet the clamminess of predawn had chilled the exposed skin of his hands and face. The end result was a cold sweat.

  It had been early when he finally abandoned the pretense of sleep. He'd gone upstairs and rummaged through the many empty Milkweed offices until he'd found a fountain pen and stationery. At first he'd intended merely to post a letter to Liv. But the date brought a new rawness to Agnes's death, ripped the scabs from that half-healed wound, leaving him tender and unprotected. The reality of the empty offices caught him unaware, forcing him to accept the reality he'd disregarded for months.

  The offices were empty because of him. Milkweed had been decimated because of his mistake. Because there was no reasoning with the inarticulate rage he felt.

  The same rage that had become a hammer pounding on the grief wedged between himself and Liv, driving it until they'd been thrown apart. She couldn't live in the margins of his agony. She needed her own space to grieve.

  Now he stood in a sterile gray sunrise in front of his home. (His home? Liv's home?) He looked from the key to the envelope and back again, unsure of what to do.

  His stomach gurgled. He wondered idly if Liv would plant new tomatoes next summer. Marsh had considered taking a cot out to the garden shed, or even sleeping in the Anderson shelter, though only in passing. It was cruel to stay so near to Liv. He had become a mirror for her sorrow, a looking glass that framed her loss.

  As always, the envelope contained most of his pay. He saved what he could for Liv; his expenses had been minimal since he'd started sleeping at the Admiralty, and Liv needed the money more than he. She had a mortgage to pay. She'd rejoined the WAAF—once, he'd seen her leaving the house in her uniform—but he knew doing one's part for the war effort didn't always pay the bills.

  Extra cash wouldn't dispel the grief that had taken root inside her, nor would it smooth the harshness that had taken root in corners of her eyes. But it would ensure that she could feed and clothe herself, and that she could keep the house if she chose to do so. Though he couldn't understand how she'd stayed there as long as she had, surrounded by hints of a family life that might have been. Liv had always been the stronger of the two of them.

  The envelope also contained a letter. The first he'd written since before the new year. His chicken-scratch handwriting was an unworthy vehicle for laying bare tumultuous thoughts and feelings. Unworthy of Liv, too; it felt disrespectful, somehow, to send her something so coarse. He wished he had Will's penmanship, the elegant hand that came naturally to moneyed people.

  He dropped the key back in his pocket. The cold metal flap over the mail slot creaked when he lifted it. He pushed the envelope through the slot, listening for the pat-slap sound as it fell to the vestibule tiles. The flap clanked shut when he released it.

  Marsh was back at the walk, his hand on the wooden gate that had replaced the wrought iron, when the door opened behind him.

  “Raybould?” Liv's voice made everything a song, even when she was confused and tired.

  He stopped, suddenly feeling anxious, ashamed, cowardly. Like he'd been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. He was afraid to look at her, but hungry for it, too.

  Marsh turned. Liv stood in the doorway, one hand on the door and the other clutching the belt of a flannel robe. Her hair was shorter than he remembered. Curlier.

  “Liv,” he blurted. “It's early.”

  “I couldn't sleep,” she said. “Today, it's ...”

  He sighed. “Yeah.” He shifted his feet, unsure of whether he should release the gate and step forward in order to see her better. He hadn't intended to speak with her, but now that she stood before him, he didn't want to drive her back inside.

  She looked thin. “Are you eating well enough?” he asked, nodding to the envelope at her feet.

  The hem of her robe lifted slightly, revealing the bare ankles above her slippers as she shrugged. He'd kissed those ankles, long ago.

  “The rationing,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He couldn't meet her eyes.

  A long hush fell between them. Birds twittered to each other. Somewhere, a lorry grinded its gears.

  “I've miss—,” she said, at the same moment he said, “I'm sorr—” Another hush. Six years long.

  Liv bit her lip. “Do you ...” She opened the door a little wider, unable or unwilling to voice the invitation.

  His hand hovered on the rough wood of the gate. Stay or go? Stay or go?

  The chasm between the gate and the house felt ten leagues wide, and his shoes full of lead shot.

  Only when she had closed the door, and they were alone together, could he meet her lovely, lovely eyes.

  “You're shivering,” she said.

  “I ... I've made so many mistakes,” he said.

  “I've missed you terribly.”

  “You're my compass, Liv. I understand that now.”

  “It's my fault. I shouldn't have sent her away.”

  “Hush, love. We did it together. Hush.”

  “I feel so useless.”

  “I wanted so desperately to punish them. The people who killed her.”

  “You can't. It was done by people we'll never know.”

  “Well ...”

  Liv's light touch, a fingertip on his lips.

  “What?”

  Quiet laughter, warmth in the dark. “You were talking in your sleep again, love.”

  “I'm sorry, Liv.”

  Her breath tickled his earlobe. “Don't be. I've missed it more than you know.” She laced her fingers through his.

  “I'm glad I came back. I'm sorry it took so long.”

  “So am I.”

  That evening, Marsh studied the map of Europe tacked to Stephenson's wall. It bristled with more pins and flags than a hedgehog had spines.

  He sipped from his tumbler. Brandy washed across his tongue and burned on the way down; it soothed his throat.

  “I thought we'd decided this plan was dead,” he said in a voice made hoarse by daylong conversation with Liv.

  “Not dead,” said Stephenson. “Moribund.”

  The plan was to lure the Soviet Union into the fray. Break the Wehrmacht's back, use the Eidolons to freeze the German war machine to death, and let Stalin's predatory instincts do the rest.

  The enemy of my enemy ...

  Marsh cracked his knuckles. None of this speculation seemed to matter. He said so: “Isn't this all a bit academic? The warlocks can't deliver.”

  They'd scrapped the plan because the warlocks had failed repeatedly to produce
the necessary results.

  Stephenson dragged on the cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. Marsh took a marble ashtray from the windowsill and handed it to him. Stephenson placed it on a stack of papers. Construction manifests and requisition orders for building supplies, by the look of them.

  Stephenson snuffed out his cigarette. The hunter-green Lucky Strike box bobbed up and down as he shook out another. American tobacco was virtually impossible to get via legal means these days. But with position came privilege, and the old man had many contacts.

  “Well. As it happens, that remains to be seen.” He skritched a match along the edge of his desk. It released the sharp and unpleasant smell of sulfur. “Had an interesting discussion with Hargreaves and Shapley yesterday. They've unearthed the root of the problem.”

  Marsh returned to the mullioned windows behind Stephenson's desk. The base camp for the December raid had long since been dismantled. St. James' was a park once more, and a greening one. Sunset glinted off the lake, causing Marsh to squint. The same lake from which Milkweed had fished several bodies after the raid in Germany.

  I'm sorry, Will. I should have listened to you.

  He sighed. “It's Will.”

  Behind him, Stephenson's chair creaked. “He's become a liability.”

  Marsh turned. “What are you proposing?”

  “Oh, relax, for God's sake. He's out of Milkweed, but we needn't do more than that,” said Stephenson. “Though of course, we'll have contingencies in place. If he talks, we'll destroy him.” Outside, robins serenaded one another.

  Destroy him? We've already done that, haven't we?

  “I'll tell him.”

  “It's my job. But I thought you should know.”

  Quietly, Marsh said, “I'm the one who brought him into this in the first place.” He shook his head again. “It's my responsibility.” I've made my amends with Liv. I owe Will at least as much.

  Stephenson harrumphed his assent. “Very well. But see to it quickly.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” Marsh's voice cracked again. He drained the tumbler.

  So. Milkweed would have at it yet again. Like a hound begging for a soup bone, getting kicked away time after time but still coming back for another try. He turned his attention back to the map.

  Black pins and little swastika flags marked the known positions of Nazi army groups and divisions across the Continent. They weren't entirely static, but the overall pattern hadn't changed appreciably since the consolidation of forces in January and February. Pins moved most frequently in the region around the Balkans, where German and Italian forces dealt with the guerrilla tactics of Greek and Yugoslav partisans. Farther south, beyond the bottom edge of the map, the Afrikakorps had been much more dynamic. Britain had reluctantly written off North Africa as another casualty of the Dunkirk failure.

  The locations of the red markers and hammer-and-sickle pennants on the eastern side of the map were a bit more speculative. Reliable intelligence regarding the distribution of Red Army forces was difficult to obtain.

  Twin rows of blue map pins indicated corridors the warlocks would attempt to open in the weather by nudging the Eidolons aside, thus providing the Soviets with routes into Germany. Several of the corridors converged on Berlin. The weather would be peeled back as the Soviets advanced.

  A single orange pin marked the location of the Reichsbehorde; there the Eidolonic weather would be strengthened into a bulwark that kept the invaders at bay.

  It was a tricky balancing act. They needed the Red Army to strike deep into the heart of a paralyzed Reich, to deliver the killing blow that would end the war. But they also had to make damn certain von Westarp's farm didn't fall into the wrong hands. Which meant, given Britain didn't have an army on the ground with which to occupy it, the REGP couldn't fall into anybody's hands.

  Hence the long-range bombers in southeast England. Britain's aircraft production was a pale shadow of what it had once been, but the RAF could scrape together enough bombers for one particular mission. The Luftwaffe was effectively grounded so long as the warlocks could keep the weather in place; Jerry's radar and antiaircraft measures would be similarly blind.

  But it all came down to timing. It required lifting the barricade around the REGP just before the RAF arrived to carpet-bomb the grounds. It was imperative the Soviets found nothing of value if they sent forces there.

  The strategy hadn't changed since early spring, just before the warlocks' first attempt to shut down the Continent with endless winter. On paper, it made a desperate kind of sense. Except ...

  Marsh cleared his throat. The brandy hadn't flushed the roughness out of his voice. “The situation is more complicated now. We ought to reassess.”

  Stephenson nodded, tapping his ashes into the tray. “The recruitment drive.”

  “If the Reichsbehorde has gone public, we can be certain old Joe knows about it. The Kremlin likely knows all about von Westarp's research by now.” The Soviets were rumored to have an extensive and aggressive spy network operating inside Nazi Germany. The Jerries referred to it as the “Red Orchestra.”

  “That's why,” said Stephenson, “you have to be ready.”

  “Sir?”

  “If our ploy succeeds, I want you in Germany the moment the Red Army starts to move.”

  Pangs of guilt and irritation jabbed at Marsh. He couldn't leave Liv alone again. He'd only just found her. He'd forgotten her scent for so long, but now he could smell her hair on the collar of his shirt.

  “Sir. I doubt I could achieve anything that an RAF bomber squadron couldn't. I'm just one man.” A feeble protest, and he knew it.

  Smoke jetted from Stephenson's nostrils, signaling impatience. “I don't give a toss what you think. And you're the only man we have left because of your monumental cock-up in Germany. Your mess, you clean it up.” He dragged again on his cigarette. “Flattening the REGP is only part of the equation. If the Soviets take Berlin, they'll get the files. Unless we destroy them first.”

  Marsh sighed. Stephenson was right. This wouldn't be over until somebody destroyed the Schutzstaffel records of von Westarp's program.

  And at the end of the day, it was Marsh's fault that Milkweed had been reduced to a single field agent.

  At least he'd get to say his good-bye to Liv in person. He hadn't done so prior to the raid in December; he knew now with utter conviction that if he'd died in Germany, that regret would have been his dying thought.

  Eddies of cigarette smoke curled around Marsh when he headed for the door. “I'll start preparing.”

  “There's one last thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “I'll need you to find new accommodations. Can't have you staying downstairs any longer.” Stephenson tapped the pile of papers beneath his ashtray. “We're planning a bit of work down there.”

  “That won't be a problem.” I won't miss that cot.

  “Good.”

  Marsh cocked an eyebrow. “What sort of work?”

  Stephenson picked up his telephone. Over the receiver, he said, “Let me know when you've spoken to Beauclerk.”

  Marsh turned to leave, pondering the new plan. Something about it still bothered him, tickled the back of his mind. Eidolons weren't tactical weapons. Weather savage enough to shatter the Wehrmacht would also freeze earth and rivers solid, kill fish and spring plantings.

  The invaders would meet little resistance. If anything, they'd be welcomed as saviors, when the Great Soviet brought bread to the starving masses.

  Marsh paused with his hand on the door handle. He turned. “Question, sir?”

  Stephenson paused in mid-dial. “What?”

  “What will we do when Soviet France is parked on our doorstep?”

  “One problem at a time. We're long overdue for some good fortune.

  “And if fortune decides to kick us in the bollocks?”

  “Then we'd better bloody well start things off on the right foot when we meet our new allies.”

  thirteen
r />   11 May 1941

  Kensington, London, England

  Will decided, while packing up the Kensington flat, that his brother W Aubrey might have been on to something with his ceaseless harping about the necessity of hired help. It rankled, the thought of taking on a valet. Will had always rejected the notion. I can clothe myself, thank you kindly.

  But now half-empty boxes sprouted from every corner of the flat like corn poppies blooming on the grave of Will's old life. A knowledgeable hand to help prune the disarray wouldn't have been unwelcome. Perhaps what he truly needed was an undertaker.

  He opted to leave the bone china. The notion of packing and shipping it back to Bestwood presented a headache he didn't care to indulge. Instead, he'd leave it for whomever succeeded him. A gesture of goodwill. And who knew? The next residents might be related to one of the many people he'd killed to satisfy the Eidolons' prices.

  It occurred to him that his closet contained a ridiculous number of suits. He took a few shirts, some trousers, a pair of ties, and abandoned the rest. He left the paisley carpetbag sitting on the floor of the closet. Let the next residents make what they would of its bloodstained contents. He didn't give a damn.

  The bell rang while he was emptying the bookshelves of Rudyard Kipling and Dashiell Hammett. Will peeked through the curtains. Marsh stood outside, his boxer's face hung low.

  “One moment,” Will called. He rolled down his sleeves to hide the bruises and puncture wounds on his forearms. He buttoned the shirt and his cuffs, checking himself in the mirror above the umbrella stand. There was no hiding the bags beneath his eyes, but they could be attributed to a sleepless night. Or ten. The hollows beneath his cheekbones and the pale, papery skin were another matter.

  He opened the door. “Pip.”

  Marsh removed his fedora, ran a hand through his hair. “Hi, Will. Can I come in for a moment?”