Though this story by Curtis C. Chen is about lasting ripples from World War II, it doesn’t feature quite the Hitler–or the Godwin–you know.
Michael walked to the memorial wall. The flags were as he remembered—USA on the left, CIA on the right—but the field of black stars floating above the white marble had multiplied since the last time he’d seen it. He now counted more than a hundred stars, each one representing a Company employee who had died in the line of service.
He stepped closer and looked at the Book of Honor, framed in steel and glass below the starfield. Less than half the gold sigils painted in the book’s pages had names written next to them, either in English or Runic.
Is your name in here, Linda? Are you one of these stars?
“Michael,” said a gravelly voice behind him.
Robert Denford didn’t look like he’d aged a single day since Michael left the Company. The two men shook hands coolly.
“How’ve you been?” Denford asked.
Michael glanced back at the wall. “You said it was a matter of historic importance. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
“Let’s go to the archives.”
Michael followed Denford into an elevator. Denford pushed a button.
“I hear you made deputy director,” Michael said as the doors closed.
Denford shrugged. “War is good for business.”
Before the elevator reached the basement, Denford pulled out his access talisman and opened a portal in the back wall. He and Michael stepped through the glowing circle and into a dim cave. There was no way to tell where this archive was; CIA had secret underground caches all over the world.
The two men walked down a long aisle of bookshelves that looked as if they had grown right out of the rough-hewn rock walls. Michael watched Denford pull one shelf out from the wall and unfold it into an impossibly large space. They stepped inside, and Denford parted another set of shelves.
Michael saw labels reading MIDWAY and MARSHALL ISLANDS on his way into a closet walled by what looked like multicolored curtains, but were actually floor-to-ceiling file volumes. He looked around in awe. The Company hadn’t used curtain files since—
“World War Two?” Michael asked.
Denford tugged a cloth line, and the material poured into his hand and became a hardbound book. “This is why we’re here.”
Michael read the book cover. “Hitler’s daughter. You’re joking, right?”
“The old man wants complete discretion. That’s why I called you.”
“I’m retired,” Michael said. “You can get someone more expert to tell you, authoritatively, that this is a crock. Something the Third Reich made up to scare the Allies as a last resort.”
“So you’ve heard the stories.”
“Yeah. Nazis raping Jewish and Romani prisoners, trying to breed supernatural talents into the master race. It didn’t work.”
Denford reached into his jacket and pulled out a modern file folder, bordered in red-and-white eyes-only logograms. The symbols shifted and moved over the paper. “There’s evidence that it did.”
“If you actually had convincing proof, you’d be talking to the JIC.”
“You’re right,” Denford said. “It’s promising, but not convincing. We need someone to run it down. Quietly. The old man trusts you.”
“And no one would suspect an elderly college professor.”
Denford smiled. “Everybody fights.”
Michael took the file. “Nobody wins.”