The Coldest War

by Ian Tregillis

  Klaus skidded to another halt, and spun to face the assassin while his mind raced. This man must have represented a tremendous leap in the Arzamas technology. Two manifestations of the Willenskräfte in the same body? Dual uses for the same Götterelektron? Even the mad genius von Westarp had never spoken of such a thing.

  How do I fight myself? Reeling with the need to reassess and restrategize, Klaus backed off. He put himself just outside what he gauged to be the other ghost’s leaping distance. The two men circled each other, heedless of walls, fire, and other obstructions.

  The first tendrils of exhaustion, the slow burn of pent-up breath, raked Klaus’s chest. There had been a time, long ago, when he’d routinely held his breath for minutes at a stretch. But he shoved aside the introspection to concentrate on the growing pressure in his chest.

  If he shares my ability, he also shares my weakness. He can’t breathe like this.

  Marsh leapt out of his hiding spot. He darted through insubstantial Klaus and the equally ghostly assassin on his way to the dining room. There was nothing he could do.

  Klaus and the assassin evaluated each other. It was a standoff. The first man to succumb to the ache in his lungs, to chance a hasty breath, would get a ghostly hand in the throat or heart.

  Klaus passed through a burning wall. Golden flames on the exposed beams grew as quickly as the burning in his chest. The effort to hold his breath drew beads of ephemeral sweat on his forehead; it stung his eyes.

  The Soviet agent showed no sign of strain. He watched Klaus with placid, unblinking eyes. Much as Klaus might have watched the other man many years ago, had their roles been reversed.

  He bit his tongue, pursed his lips as the flush rose in his face. The old Reichsbehörde training failed him. All the tricks he’d learned—counting his heartbeats, willing blood from his limbs to his head—were useless against another copy of himself. And time had long since eroded the benefits of the physical training in his youth.

  The Soviet agent frowned. He looked unconcerned. And that was when Klaus noticed the swell and ebb of his opponent’s chest.

  The son of a bitch was breathing. Insubstantial, yet breathing.

  Their eyes met. The agent sighed as though bored.

  Scheisse.

  Klaus dived through the burning wall. He released the Götterelektron before he tumbled to the floor of the adjoining home, exhaling with an explosive sigh.

  The pop of gunshots rang from next door.

  * * *

  Because SIS had evacuated the crescent before sunrise, the blinds and drapes were still drawn. They covered the windows as effectively as blackout curtains.

  Will ran into an armchair where a door leading from the master bedroom to the corridor ought to have been. He sprawled face-first on a hard floor. Brick? It scraped his skin, tore his trousers. The chair flipped over, landing on him with a crash.

  He thrashed, convinced that Cherkashin’s man had tackled him, before regaining his senses enough to extricate himself. He struggled to his feet. An end table and lamp wobbled next to the toppled chair, barely visible in the shadows. Will steadied them. He pulled the lamp chain. (Tiffany glass, azure dragonflies. Strange, the details that grab a person in desperate moments.)

  The light lasted just long enough for him to realize this end unit of the crescent had been extensively remodeled. But then the lamp died with an audible pop. It startled Will. The lamp shattered on the floor.

  Will found the corridor. He stumbled down the staircase, his knees still rubbery from the residual fear of being entombed alive. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous vestibule. Any moment, he’d be discovered. Murdered.

  He fumbled the locks open. But the door swung inward only a few inches before slamming to a halt. More precious seconds ticked away while Will heaved on the door. It wouldn’t move. He didn’t notice the chain until he’d tried several times to force the door. He yanked the chain out of its slot, threw the door wide, tripped over the sill, and staggered outside.

  * * *

  Marsh crouched in the dining room, watching helplessly while the German and Soviet supermen circled each other. Turning his head, swallowing, even breathing—every flexion of his wounded throat threatened to overwhelm him with agony. But the job wasn’t finished.

  Shit, shit, shit. How many things can this bastard do?

  He was a ghost, like Klaus, and a salamander, like Reinhardt. What next? Would he become invisible? Fly? Tear the house apart with his mind?

  And he was immune to EMP.

  Flames spread from the foyer. They danced along the banister, up the stairs. Heat raked Marsh’s face; he flipped the dining room table on its side, momentarily shielding himself from the flames. He thought about what he’d seen at the moment of Klaus’s attack.

  The corona had blinked out when the Soviet agent switched between his abilities. More than that. He’d flickered … as if he’d reverted to his normal form, just for an instant, before changing from salamander to ghost.

  He can’t be both at once.

  Marsh kept his head low, ducking behind furniture as he scrambled to the parlor. There, half charred and reeking of pork, Anthony’s body lay inside a circle of ash. He’d drawn his pistol before he died. Intense heat had constricted his flesh, curling his fingers into a skeletal grip; slivers of white bone peeked through cracks in the blackened muscle. The surge that had killed him had also ignited the window sashes. Draperies fell in burning clumps to the floor, past panes of sagging glass.

  The Browning was hot to the touch, like the rest of Anthony. But the barrel hadn’t wilted. The blast had been directed at his body rather than his weapon. Marsh peeled the dead man’s fingers away, snapping them as necessary.

  He returned to the foyer just in time to see Klaus dive through an adjoining wall. Marsh squeezed off a shot.

  The bullet passed through the Soviet agent. It lodged in the wall through which Klaus had escaped, raising a puff of plaster that disappeared into the rising smoke. The agent turned, frowning. He saw Marsh. He flickered.

  Marsh fired again, a fraction of a second too late. A shimmering corona engulfed the other man at the same instant Marsh pulled the trigger. The bullet vaporized in a flash of violet light. The Soviet assassin stepped backwards, steadying himself.

  “Where is William Beauclerk?” he said. His voice was calm, muted by the whoosh of his corona’s updraft and the crackling of the burning house.

  Marsh retreated. He fired again, and again. He’d missed his chance to kill the monster now advancing on him; all he could do was try to outlast the battery. Smoke tickled his ruined throat. He coughed. A new round of pain nearly caused him to black out.

  “I grow tired of this,” said the fiend. “Tell me. What have you done with William?” He stalked Marsh into the parlor.

  Fumbling for the pin on the Mills bomb at his belt, Marsh stumbled past Anthony’s body. The Soviet agent loomed over him, wreathed in flames like a demon.

  Somewhere outside, tires screeched on pavement. The agent’s head jerked up. He stared past Marsh, to the ruined windows and the street beyond.

  “Ah. Never mind,” he said. “Wait here.” Then he turned and ran for the foyer.

  Marsh cursed. He scrambled after the other man.

  “Will!” he croaked. The burns had given his voice a gravel-and-whiskey rasp. Pain drove him to his knees. “Watch out!”

  * * *

  The street was empty.

  “Damnation,” Will gasped.

  Where’s the bloody lorry?

  Pembroke will be waiting for you, they’d told him. Just hop inside and ride to safety. Easy-peasy.

  A handful of parked cars lined the long, straight leg of the crescent. But nothing large enough to hide a surveillance team. Will glanced the other way, past the wide horseshoe curve of deserted town houses.

  There. Across the crescent. Idling outside the other end unit, a boxy green Morris Oxford van painted with an advert for a gardening service.

  Kl
aus had taken him out the wrong end. Or Pembroke had cocked it up, switched things around. Either way, Will found himself standing in the open, several hundred yards from his easy-peasy ride to safety.

  And between the two, his own house. Where firelight flickered in the windows. Where plumes of smoke roiled through the wide-open front door.

  Will waved his arms. “Hi, hi!” he yelled. “I’m here!”

  The van didn’t budge.

  “Sod it all.” Will sprinted across the street. “Good show, Pip,” he muttered. “Very well done.”

  A low, wrought iron railing lined the park occupying the open space at the center of the crescent. He tripped over it. An ornamental spike snagged Will’s trouser leg. He stumbled across the park, trailing the torn hem and still waving his arms.

  “Hi, hi, over here!”

  The crackle of sporadic gunfire echoed across the park. Will hit the earth. He covered his head and tried to make himself as small as possible. Much as he had during that terrible night in Germany so many Decembers ago.

  The gunfire trailed off. Will allowed himself a peek across the park. The van still hadn’t moved.

  “Oh, yes, you’re doing a brilliant job, aren’t you?”

  He took a deep breath, thought fleetingly of Gwendolyn, and set off on another sprint. Will had just passed his former house—which was burning like Crystal Palace now—when the van finally lurched forward with a grinding of gears. It zipped around the bend, nearly tipping when it swerved around a car parked too far from the curb.

  It skidded to a halt between Will and the burning town house. The side door banged open. Pembroke leaned out, beckoning at him.

  An unfamiliar voice yelled, “Will! Watch out!”

  Will hopped the railing again and dashed across the street. He’d come within a few paces of the van when the asphalt softened underfoot. It pulled at his shoes. He staggered. Pembroke caught his hand. Shimmering waves of heat came surging around the van, making a mirage of the crescent beyond.

  * * *

  Klaus sagged against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. His chest ached. The wall grew warmer by the moment; the fire was spreading out of control.

  He hacked up a gobbet of blood. It splattered on the floor. Breathing too hard irritated his damaged sinuses.

  Breathing while insubstantial. He spit again. Multiple abilities. He stood. What else haven’t you told us, sister?

  Another flurry of gunshots. Klaus knew that was Marsh attempting to keep the Soviet agent busy, to force him to keep drawing on his battery. But Cherkashin’s man drew upon the Götterelektron with wild abandon; Klaus hadn’t seen such an extravagant demonstration of Willenskräfte since the Ardennes forest. The assassin’s battery must have held a stupendous amount of charge.

  Klaus glanced at his own battery. The needle rested a hairsbreadth above the red. Meaning the battery would soon fail.

  But. If Marsh could keep their opponent occupied for just a few more seconds, long enough for Klaus to slip in behind him …

  Ear pressed to the warm wall, he listened for another gunshot. It would give him a rough idea of Marsh’s location, assuming the man still lived. Klaus would have to guess as to where the other man stood.

  Crack. Another shot. Klaus inhaled deeply. But then the SIS van screeched to a halt on the street outside.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen. It ought to have been far away by now.

  He glimpsed Will running for the van. Which meant the assassin was bound to see him as well.

  Klaus called up his Willenskräfte in midstride. The copper taste filled his mouth again. He passed through the unfamiliar dining room like a ghostly wind and hit the street hard, heading for the van.

  * * *

  Every footstep was a struggle against passing out. The pain was becoming too much for Marsh to bear. But he staggered outside, following the Soviet agent down the stairs to street level.

  The killer blazed brightly now, a vaguely human shadow wrapped in searing luminescence. Flames erupted from wooden window boxes while the calendulas inside shriveled and blackened. Iron handrails sagged in his wake. His passage even rendered the granite steps uncomfortably hot.

  He was heading for the van. As was Will.

  Marsh lobbed a Mills bomb. It disappeared in the corona. Explosives were pointless; even if the heat didn’t destroy the grenade, the shrapnel would vaporize before it could touch the fucker. Marsh needed something larger.

  He glanced up and down the crescent, desperately looking for anything useful.

  The assassin strode to the curb. Asphalt bubbled beneath his boots. A wall of shimmering air spread from his corona, roiling toward the van. It splashed like a wave where it hit the vehicle, blackening and bubbling the paint.

  Klaus leapt into the furnace.

  * * *

  The Götterelektron surged through Klaus’s body. He funneled it through his outstretched fingers into the bumper. He willed the van and its human contents transparent to the hellish assault.

  It was a momentary reprieve.

  He watched the gauge needle sink deeper into the red. Current ebbed and surged through Klaus’s wires. He struggled to keep the flow consistent, grappled with the sputtering death throes of his battery. He’d carried the battery all the way from Arzamas, but it was ready to fail.

  The Soviet agent redoubled his efforts. Klaus and the van became an island in a lake of bubbling asphalt.

  The van couldn’t leave without Klaus inside; it would burn the moment he broke contact. But he couldn’t move. Wrangling current from the dying battery took every bit of concentration he could muster.

  Do something, Marsh. Do it now.

  The needle sank deeper.

  Come on. Come on.

  Deeper.

  * * *

  There.

  Marsh reloaded Anthony’s pistol while sprinting past a row of parked cars toward a yellow sign marked with a bold “H.” It indicated the location of metal plate in the street, and the fire hydrant beneath it.

  The hydrant plate had a narrow hole for admitting a fireman’s wrench. Marsh jammed the barrel into the hole and fired three shots. Next he twisted the pistol and heaved, using it as a lever to flip the plate open. Everything stank of melted asphalt.

  He dropped a Mills bomb into the hydrant chamber. Then he kicked out the driver-side window of a black soft-top Triumph and took cover behind the driver-side door.

  A muffled whump shook the street. A thirty-foot geyser erupted from the shattered water main. Marsh braced himself against the curb, lifted the hydrant plate, and angled it into the plume. The torrent drenched the street with cold rain, engulfing the Soviet agent in a cloud of steam.

  * * *

  Artificial rain fell in sheets. Water sizzled on the asphalt beneath the van. It soaked Klaus intermittently as his battery coughed up the last of its current.

  He pounded on the van. With the last of his breath he managed, “Go! While he’s blind!”

  The driver revved the engine before throwing the van into gear. It jumped forward, rematerialized, then lurched to a crawl. Klaus threw himself clear of the roiling steam before filling his tortured lungs.

  Flaming tires churned through soft asphalt. For a moment it looked as though the van wouldn’t break free. But it gained just enough traction to inch forward. It accelerated. Ruined tires slap-slap-slapped on the solid roadway. They’d be driving on the rims before they reached the end of the crescent.

  The van wouldn’t get them very far, but it would get them away.

  * * *

  Marsh scrambled inside the Triumph. He hadn’t boosted many cars in his youth, having preferred motorbikes, but the principle was the same. Precious seconds ticked away while the steam dissipated and he fiddled under the steering column with arthritic fingers.

  The car sputtered to life. Marsh slammed it into gear and stomped the gas pedal.

  It was a gamble. A gamble that the assassin hadn’t flown away. That he hadn’t become a g
host. That he wouldn’t quit until Will was dead.

  Marsh aimed for the heart of the cloud.

  Inferno.

  Agony.

  Impact.

  Darkness.

  interlude

  … three days to vacate your flat.

  They will come for you. Flee.

  The wood-dry scent of burnt toast tickled Reinhardt’s nose. He used a fork to flip the bread slice sizzling on his electric skillet. Toast and jam, twice a day; that was his diet since abandoning the council estate flat. He couldn’t afford anything else. Most of his cash had gone into the pockets of a Jew landlord, in the form of a deposit on a flat in Whitechapel.

  Reinhardt had abandoned most of his electronic supplies at the flat. In the course of a single frantic night, he’d lost the collection amassed over years—decades—of painstaking work. There had been barely enough room in his car for the essentials.

  But he didn’t need his entire collection. Not any longer. He hadn’t yet reconciled the findings in his own journals with Gretel’s blueprint fragments, but he could infer the extent of the missing information. It wasn’t unlike piecing together a picture puzzle: he knew the shape of the hole, and it was small.

  The bread blackened while he reread Gretel’s letter.

  Yes, they know you’re here. And no, dear Reinhardt, I am not the one who betrays you. It is my brother. He means well, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand what you and I are accomplishing.

  “You and I?”

  Each time he reached that line, his fingers twitched with the urge to crumple the letter and toss it away. But he didn’t, because—

  We’re close now. If only you could see what I do. It’s glorious.

  “Of course I am, you gypsy lunatic.”

  He speared the bread and tossed it on a dinner plate. The Jew had threatened to evict him if he popped another fuse, so he took care to twist the hot plate control in the proper direction when turning it off. Reinhardt spread a spoonful of marmalade on the toast.

  There is but one obstacle remaining. His name is Leslie Pembroke.…

  From there she launched, finally, into more straightforward details. At least this time she didn’t want things done yesterday.