Bitter Seeds

storeroom. The thin layer of snow squeaked under his boots and left a record of his movements. He tried to step lightly, and he paid attention to the wind-shadows of the buildings where snow hadn't dusted the ground. He could tiptoe through these areas without leaving prints.

Watching the snow saved his life. Marsh was turning a corner when the snow in front of him evaporated. He leapt back. Flames erupted from the ground where he'd been about to step.

A man stepped around the corner, laughing, wreathed in blue fire. The light illuminated the adjacent buildings and made Marsh squint. He scuttled frantically backwards through mud that had been snow and frozen earth seconds earlier.

“You're quick,” said the burning man in English, over the crackle of his fiery aura. “Quicker than your comrades. I'll grant you that much.”

Marsh emptied his revolver. The first shot went wide, scarring the bricks alongside the burning man. The second bullet flared purple when it touched the man's aura. The man took a step back to steady himself, still burning.

Marsh scrambled to his feet, trying to steady his hands so he could reload. But his assailant recovered before Marsh could pull out a new cylinder. The man clutched his shoulder, wincing.

“All done? I'd—”

A woman yelled: “Reinhardt! Reinhardt, come quickly!”

Marsh knew that voice. It was Gretel. He had replayed it in his head countless times. Congratulations. It's a girl.

The burning man—Reinhardt—hesitated. Marsh ran. Behind him, he heard Gretel yelling, “Reinhardt, please, this instant!”

Marsh weaved between a few buildings before pressing up against a wall and plucking a Mills from his belt, in case he was being followed. But the snow didn't melt behind him, and the earth didn't spit forth new flames.

By distracting Reinhardt, Gretel had inadvertently saved Marsh's life.

He took the opportunity to catch his breath and reload. He gulped cold winter air that chilled his throat. Rivulets of sweat stung his eyes with salt. He leaned against the wall, listening to shouts, dwindling gunfire, and the whoosh sound of disintegrating forest. The earth shook again. The remnants of his squad had engaged Kammler again.

He found himself staring up at the three-story farmhouse as he placed a new cylinder in his revolver. Von Westarp's farmhouse. A silhouette still paced in front of the windows on the top floor. Marsh couldn't see any details, but he had a hunch as to who owned that shadow.

More noise echoed across the grounds from the battle with Kammler. It gave Marsh an idea.

Klaus stumbled through a darkened laboratory, coughing convulsively. He fell to all fours. A tray of medical implements crashed to the floor when he banged against a surgical table.

The coughs came out so violently that they irritated the back of his throat and caused him to gag. He vomited rabbit stew on the tile floor of an operating room.

His eyes and sinuses burned. His throat burned, too, from the surge of stomach acids. But his skin wasn't blistering, and he couldn't smell garlic or fresh hay. So he hadn't inhaled mustard gas or phosgene. And the cloud had been white, not yellowish like chlorine.

The coughing fit receded. His eyes still burned, but he could open them now. It seemed he'd emerged in the middle of a smoke screen, but not into a poison gas cloud.

Sweat ran down Klaus's face, mingling with the tears from his watering eyes. Profuse sweating was a natural result of intense exertion while insubstantial; his body built up heat in that state and couldn't convect it away until he rematerialized.

But it was a cold sweat, too, because he knew he'd nearly killed himself. One little misstep, but he could have died. A terrifying reminder of his mortality.

Then again, Gretel would have warned him had he been in true jeopardy. Wouldn't she?

He had to pinch the tears from watery eyes several times before he could read the gauge on his remaining battery. Less than a quarter of the charge left; the needle rested just above the red. It was enough, if he was careful. It would have to be. There wasn't time to go to the stores.

Klaus wiped his mouth on his sleeve, trailing spit and vomit, as he headed for the conventional exit. He had to conserve his battery as much as possible. He stepped carefully; he didn't know the laboratory well enough to navigate it in the dark.

It was lighter outside than in the laboratory, owing to moonlight and the glow from the farmhouse windows. But Klaus's eyesight was blurry still. Cold air scraped at his raw sinuses, threatening to make him cough again. He doubled over, fighting another episode.

The night was alive with the noise of combat. Gunfire. Explosions. The ground rumbled. Kammler howled.

From somewhere off to Klaus's right came two reports like gunshots from a sidearm. Much like the revolver of the man Klaus had chased. Klaus headed in that direction.

“Reinhardt! Reinhardt, come quickly!”

Klaus skidded to a halt. His sister called for help from somewhere behind him.

She called again, more frantic this time. “Reinhardt, please, this instant!”

Klaus hurried toward the sound of her voice.

Will watched all hell break loose after Marsh ran off.

First, another squad member came crashing through the woods from the west. He appeared to be the only survivor of that team.

Then the earth rippled. Furrows appeared in the field, racing across the ground at random. Snow, topsoil, and oak trees fountained into the air. Windows shattered. Will watched the tall metal masts of the dead spotlights coil up like so much ribbon on a spool. The screech of tortured metal was deafening.

Kammler howled. A cry of inchoate despair.

The new arrival fired wildly at Kammler. It achieved nothing.

Kammler jumped to his feet. Trees exploded into sawdust and splinters.

The rest of the men fired. Some lobbed their Mills bombs. All with no effect.

Before, there had been an orderliness to the destruction. It had been controlled. Logical. Methodical. But now, with nobody to control Kammler, it was chaotic.

Will retreated. So did the others. Random parcels of forest kept disintegrating around them. This was hopeless. They had to leave.

He had the stone. But what he needed was a quiet place to concentrate. How in the hell was he supposed to do that in the middle of a war zone? Another thing they hadn't thought through very carefully.

Marsh came around the side of the farmhouse, waving his arms. “Hey! Over here!” The collared man turned. Marsh tossed something at the body of the man he'd shot.

Will jumped into a shallow streambed. He pulled his knife, sliced his hand, and concentrated.

The man called Kammler stood inside a maelstrom of devastation. Marsh understood why they kept him on a leash. Without someone to guide him, Kammler was capable only of unfocused destruction. There was no intelligence, no plan, no meaning behind it.

God almighty. How did they learn to control something like that?

“Hey!” Marsh waved his arms, trying to get Kammler's attention. “Over here!” Kammler turned, the look on his face pathetic and puzzled. Soil, glass, steel, and wood swirled around him. The creature was too confused to understand that Marsh was a threat. All he knew was rage at the loss of his companion.

Marsh tried a different tactic. Instead of attacking Kammler, he attacked the dead man. He lobbed a Mills at the body and then ran like hell. Kammler automatically protected his dead companion, as Marsh suspected he would. The grenade imploded in midair, pulverized into dust with a little pop.

That got Kammler's attention. He followed Marsh, still wrapped in his furious cyclone. It tore a swath of damage through the grounds.

Marsh ran, turned, taunted Kammler, then ran farther.

That's it. Follow me.

Klaus followed Gretel's pleas for help around to the north side of the farmhouse. She was far from the action.