Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych)

by Ian Tregillis

  That was the hardest part. Pretending I didn’t know how to woo her. Pretending I didn’t want to. Pretending part of me didn’t fixate on how I could steal her away so easily once she stopped seeing my scars. When I’d first won her heart, I hadn’t known her half as well as I did now. What if her husband never came home?

  No. She wasn’t my wife, I reminded myself. My wife had died at the end of the world. I had to take what I could, and I did. I was grateful for every moment of her company. Because if, luck willing, we won this war and Liv’s true husband returned, would I have any choice but to fade into the shadows like a lonely ghost? I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I had to find a way to stay close to Liv and Agnes.

  Liv clicked on the wireless. Her hands shook when she took her teacup again. She covered her nervousness well. But I knew the questions tugging at her mind. How long could Britain’s luck last? Would this be the day it broke?

  Every Briton followed the news from Dunkirk. And although every day brought more soldiers home, the nation was caught between optimism and terror. France was going to fall. The evacuation was fragile; it could collapse at any moment. How many Tommies were fated to die on the beaches?

  All of them, the first time around.

  I remembered that day. That terrible day. She’d dropped a dish when the first news came. Liv and I sat in the den, practically glued to the wireless, listening as the details unfolded. Much like we were doing now, and had done for the past several days.

  Funny thing. Go back in time twenty years and the huge events change while the little things repeat themselves.

  Sometimes Liv twirled a finger through an auburn lock while she listened to the dispatches. Sometimes she pursed her mouth, hard enough to whiten peach pink lips. Sometimes she frowned. She put on a brave face, but I knew she was concerned. Frightened.

  It was so goddamn hard not to stare at her.

  I had to play along, feign the same apprehension. Had to play the part of the grizzled naval commander, projecting fragile confidence as events teetered on a knife edge. Had to be a regular Englishman, worried that our army was soon to die on the beaches.

  Even though that wasn’t going to happen. I knew this because I knew Gretel. Knew her well enough to understand what she was doing.

  Every soldier rescued from the French coast was one more soldier put to the defense of Britain if Hitler tried to invade. Each and every evacuated soldier lessened Milkweed’s incentive to trust our national defense to the warlocks. Lessened our dependence upon the Eidolons.

  Gretel had worked a miracle. Not her first, and unfortunately not her last, probably, but the first I could appreciate. This was concrete proof that my mad mission wasn’t impossible. Proof that things could change.

  It opened up so many possibilities I couldn’t begin to catalog them all. For the first time, I had a glimpse of the world through Gretel’s eyes. History was a mutable thing. It could change, like a river carving a new course, changing the fates of armies and nations. And so, too, could the course of individual lives change.

  Agnes’s life could change. She could have a life.

  I was grateful for the gift. Even if it did come from the Devil herself.

  The radio warbled with static. We sipped our weak tea in cordial silence while Agnes napped in her bassinet. Every day, every hour with Liv was less awkward than the one before. She was slowly warming to the commander. She’d warmed to Raybould Marsh very quickly, and he to her. I had to keep reminding myself that I was here as a different man. That other me would throw all of this away without even realizing it. Stupid, stubborn ass.

  The six o’clock news confirmed my suspicions about Gretel’s strategy. What little German armor was present to dog the allied soldiers had been withdrawn. In its place, the Luftwaffe unleashed another day of heavy attacks on Dunkirk itself.

  Interesting that Gretel had left Göring in charge this time around. What mistake would he make? What would he overlook? What would he underestimate?

  Well, the RAF, for one. It was engaging the Luftwaffe, providing cover for the retreating troops. That hadn’t happened last time. It hadn’t been possible.

  Official estimates said upwards of fifty thousand men would be rescued by the end of the day, British and French together. Almost twice the total number of men who had escaped Dunkirk during the first two days. The evacuation was accelerating.

  Liv finished her tea. She turned off the wireless with a shaking hand. Released a long, pent-up sigh. Her eyes met mine briefly. I knew that look. I suddenly realized why the news from France had her wound so tightly. She didn’t believe her husband had gone to America. She suspected otherwise.

  But just then Agnes awoke and distracted both of us.

  Agnes mewled. One little arm poked from beneath her elephant blanket. It shook with the jerkiness of baby muscles. I concentrated on my tea. Tried to ignore the icicle piercing my heart.

  Liv lifted our daughter. Their daughter. “Shhh, shhh, baby girl.” She held Agnes close, rocked her. “Are you hungry?” She rocked and hummed while Agnes mewled. “No, not hungry. Do you need a change?” More humming, and a sniff. “No, not that. You miss your father, don’t you?” Agnes settled, calmed by her mother’s voice.

  “Me, too, baby girl,” Liv whispered. “Me, too.”

  It was agony, seeing this family but not being a part of it. The wanting burned hotter than the fire that had taken my face.

  I couldn’t stand it. I gathered my courage. “Mmm … May I?”

  Liv’s eyebrows went up. She hadn’t pegged the commander as one for children. And she didn’t know me well. Or, that is to say, she didn’t realize she knew me very well indeed. But she looked at my face, and whatever she saw there, it changed her mind.

  “You’d be doing me a kindness. I must put supper on, or I’ll be eating at midnight.”

  She started to show me how to hold a baby, but I knew what to do. It came back so quickly. Liv laid Agnes in my arms. My baby was lighter than a snowflake and smelled just as clean. Cleaner.

  I’d forgotten the little creases of baby fat under her eyes. Forgotten her tiny fingernails. Forgotten the way she scrunched her face in her sleep.

  Oh, God. My baby daughter.

  I didn’t kiss her. God knew I wanted to. But it would’ve been the end of Liv’s courtesy if she caught me at it. And I think my beard would have been too tough, too scratchy, for Agnes’s newborn-soft skin.

  It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before Liv returned. She surprised me. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want her to see the wetness on my cheeks.

  “You’re very good with her. Do you have children, Commander?”

  “No,” I said too quickly, shaking my head. But something broke inside my already ruined voice. Liv heard it. “Not anymore,” I confessed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  I knew it was dangerous, spending time with Liv and Agnes. But I told myself it was the best thing I could do.

  There was nothing I could do about the Reichsbehörde at the moment. I’d trusted that to more capable hands. As for the warlocks … well, Milkweed didn’t have a cadre of warlocks yet, and it wouldn’t until Will returned. After his travels about the country, tracking down every last warlock in Britain, he’d instantly know me for an imposter. Though I’d missed the opportunity to make him think I was one of them, I still felt confident I could make Will my personal double agent within the Milkweed coven.

  But the issue of Gretel remained. She’d killed Agnes the first time around, but what now? What were her intentions toward my daughter? My wife? Something cold scudded behind Gretel’s eyes when she spoke of Liv.

  I was glad Gretel had changed the course of events at Dunkirk. But that didn’t make me inclined to trust the bitch. We had too much history for that.

  And so I told myself I was being smart. Whatever her intentions toward Liv and Agnes, I knew Gretel wouldn’t let anything happen to me. After all, I was her savior.

  That m
eant Liv and Agnes were safe as long as they were with me. I’d make certain they wouldn’t leave London if the bombs came. They’d be under my umbrella. As long as we were in the same city, I could protect them from Gretel.

  Just until her husband returns, I constantly reminded myself. This is an illusion, this oasis of domesticity. It couldn’t last. He’d come back, and then she’d be his forever and ever. But if he didn’t return … No. I refused to acknowledge the evil thoughts that smoldered like banked coals in the fire pit of my soul.

  What had Gretel done to me?

  Things would be well again. If I could stave off the growing compulsion to confess everything to Liv. If I could suppress the urge to reveal myself. If I could overcome the jealousy I felt toward her husband.

  I handed Agnes back to Liv, whose face had grown long with pity and compassion.

  She hesitated. Asked, “Won’t you stay for supper?”

  If I could resist the temptation to come home.

  6 June 1940

  Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials

  Along with the major objectives of Marsh’s mission—destroy the farm, destroy the records—Liddell-Stewart had included one particularly strange requirement. Marsh didn’t know why the commander wanted a blood sample from one of the Twins, but the abrasive codger had been insistent.

  Marsh knew the request must have had something to do with the Eidolons. He remembered how Will had shed his own blood to draw their attention, and how he’d used a sample of Gretel’s blood to show her to them. But at the time, Marsh had been more concerned by the mechanics of the order than by the twisted logic behind it. The problem, as explained by the commander, was that the Twins had been deployed in the field. And he didn’t know where.

  Marsh had been prepared to write it off. Bad enough he still hadn’t a clue how to scuttle the Reichsbehörde records stored in Berlin. He couldn’t orchestrate that, and the destruction of the farm, and accommodate the commander’s eccentric addendum. Not when the targets could have been anywhere in the world.

  But Gretel had taken care of that. And so the strangest of Liddell-Stewart’s demands also became the easiest to fulfill. Not simple, but straightforward.

  He watched the Twin as much as he could manage. He tried to note the frequency of her visits to the loo, though it was difficult to watch her that closely. But it didn’t take much attention to he see how much time Pabst spent alone with her. Ostensibly the debriefing sessions were used to retrieve information from her sister. But more than once Marsh heard the faint, rhythmic squeaking of wooden table legs across a tile floor, or the jangle of a belt buckle. Followed afterwards, of course, by the smell of sex, and the glimmer of tears in mismatched eyes.

  Marsh had been at the farm three weeks. Today his menial task was to keep Kammler occupied while a trio of technicians readied the morning’s test. Buhler lounged in the shade behind the icehouse, waiting for the test to begin. He spent no more time with Kammler than he had to.

  Clouds drifted across a patchwork sky. Hot sunlight accompanied a breeze cool enough to make the shadows uncomfortable. It rustled oak leaves in the forest and fluttered swastika banners atop the farmhouse. Marsh didn’t mind the chill; the wind washed away the sour-milk scent of Kammler. Off to the west, a line of lower, darker clouds made a strategic advance upon the farm. Rain by lunchtime.

  Mundane soldiers dumped fine golden sand from a supply truck into a pit in a distant corner of the training field. Reinhardt oversaw their work. Wind tore the falling sand into sheets and ribbons. It carried across the field to Marsh and stung his eyes with grit. Kammler seemed not to notice. But Marsh tugged at the larger man’s arm, turned his face out of the wind.

  “Here. This should be better for you,” he said.

  “Mmmmmm. Muh,” said Kammler.

  That was new. He usually said, “Buh.” Which was as close as he could come to pronouncing “Buhler.”

  Marsh felt grateful that he didn’t have to use the leash. But they only fastened the collar on Kammler when he had a battery, and they didn’t let Marsh near the telekinetic when that was the case. Buhler, for his part, relied heavily upon the choke collar.

  Marsh kept up a steady string of encouragements and kindnesses. No reason to expect Kammler understood any of it. But it made the imbecile familiar with Marsh’s voice and manner. It achieved, superficially at least, a sense of comfort and familiarity. And it kept the large fellow calm.

  From his vantage alongside Kammler, Marsh watched Pabst escort the Twin from the mess hall into the farmhouse, and, undoubtedly, the debriefing room. He wondered where her sister had been deployed, and whether it was strategically important enough to justify the standartenführer’s constant need to question the girl.

  You fucking pig, he thought. I won’t have any qualms about plugging you when the time comes. Your victim, though … He didn’t like thinking about what he’d have to do to Kammler, either, when the time came.

  As always, von Westarp oversaw everything from his study while the technicians arranged cameras and equipment for Kammler’s test. They struggled with dollies and jacks to spread a half-dozen rusty metal-bound crates across the field. Heavy things, too, judging from the way the ground shook each time they rolled a box from the dolly. Looked like they were planning to stretch Kammler’s limits by making him focus on multiple objects.

  Good luck, thought Marsh. Meanwhile, Kammler picked his nose and rubbed a hand across his shaven scalp.

  The technicians made final adjustments to the cameras. Pabst emerged from the farmhouse. He slammed the door hard enough that the bang made Kammler jump. The colonel stalked across the field toward Reinhardt’s sandbox.

  Marsh thought, Oh, ho. Got tired of you, did she?

  But he saw no scratches on the colonel’s face, nothing to suggest she’d resisted him. She didn’t dare. Pabst had changed his mind. And didn’t look happy about it. But he’d been as eager as ever to have it off with her not ten minutes ago.

  What could snuff a man’s ardor like that? There were times, a few particular days out of each month, when he and Liv didn’t … Pangs of regret, fear, and loneliness speared him in the chest and stole his breath. Oh, Liv.

  He shoved aside the gnawing ache in his mind and heart. Concentrated. This was his opportunity to fulfill one of Liddell-Stewart’s goals.

  Marsh watched the techs from the corner of an eye made rough with grit and wind. One of the men made final checks to the camera arrangement. He nodded to the others, then called to Buhler. The hauptsturmführer levered himself to his feet and slung Kammler’s leash over one shoulder. His footsteps left trails in the dewy grass as he approached.

  Marsh made a show of inspecting Kammler. “God damn it,” he said, loud enough for Buhler to hear before he came too close.

  Buhler said, “What?”

  “He pissed himself again.” Marsh reached up to Kammler’s neck and fished the long wires out from under his shirt. He shook the bare copper connectors, as though flicking away beads of moisture. Then, for good measure, he frowned in disgust and wiped his hands on Kammler’s shirt. “It’s everywhere.”

  “That’s why,” said Buhler, “you’re supposed to take him to the bathroom before we start a test. Now we have to wait.” He shook his head. “You’re worse than Kammler. At least he has an excuse.” He sauntered back to the shade.

  Marsh tugged at Kammler’s wrist. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “Let’s go inside for a minute.”

  The farmhouse had two lavatories. Von Westarp’s study had its own en suite accommodation. His children shared a single facility on the ground floor. Support staff used the outlying buildings. Past renovations to the farmhouse had included an upgrade to the plumbing, but only halfway. There were several sinks but still only one toilet—and that in sore need of cleaning (no doubt they’d hand that task to Marsh as soon as somebody thought of it). It allowed several people to shave or brush their teeth simultaneously, but gave no privacy to anybo
dy who otherwise needed to use the facility. But they’d been raised without such expectations, and thus understood nothing else.

  To his credit, Kammler knew what the bathroom meant. He pushed his pants down and shuffled toward the toilet with his trousers around his ankles.

  Marsh knelt on the hard tiles beside the rubbish bin. He took care when reaching into the bin, not knowing what he might find. The nub of a pencil. An empty tube of dentifrice. The cold, wet trail where somebody had blown their nose on a serviette. Something hard; a chip from the handle of a cheap straight razor.

  And, shoved near the bottom, a wad of bloody linen. Marsh fished it out. The material was still tacky with clotted blood. He gave it a sniff. Menstrual.

  It might have been Gretel’s, or Heike’s, but given what he’d seen of the sudden change in Pabst’s behavior—

  The door opened. Reinhardt barged in. He froze, taking in the scene: Kammler standing over the toilet with his pants down, mumbling to himself; Marsh hunched over the rubbish bin, studying a bloody rag.

  Marsh froze, too. He can’t possibly understand what I’m doing, he thought. Whatever he makes of this, it won’t be the truth.

  He fished around for a quick and plausible explanation, but Reinhardt obviated it with barking laughter. “I knew it! You fucking pervert.” He pointed at Marsh. “I knew there was something wrong about you the moment Gretel brought you home. Anybody who’d willingly make himself her pet had to be bent.”

  Reinhardt went to the toilet and pushed Kammler aside. Unbuckling his belt, he said, “Is that Gretel’s discharge? No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He voided his bladder. Over the loud ring of water on porcelain, he added, “You two are even more disgusting than I’d imagined.”

  Marsh shoved the moist linen into his pocket while Reinhardt had his back turned. Reinhardt shook, rebuckled, pulled the chain to empty the bowl. Marsh re-dressed Kammler while Reinhardt washed his hands.

  “Englishman, you’ve made my morning,” said the salamander. He departed, still chuckling to himself. Marsh led Kammler back outside, a sample of the Twin’s blood tucked firmly in his pocket.