The Rook

by Daniel O'Malley

  From there I was sent across the lawn to the solidly built building that housed the department concerned with the students’ special features, those advantages that had led to their coming to the Estate in the first place. I walked past practice rooms where children sang little animals to death, lifted refrigerators above their heads, and had in-depth conversations with pine trees. I finally arrived at the office of the head of the department, who interviewed me for a good two hours on exactly what had happened when I fell out of the tree.

  This interview stands out in my memory as one of the most excruciating experiences of that entire excruciating day, and that includes the hurried visits to the bathroom. But we came out of it with the understanding that I thought I could repeat my little trick with touching people. It didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder what would have happened if I had decided I couldn’t do the trick again. Years later, I learned that the Estate’s approach to such situations is something along the lines of “birds that can sing and won’t sing must be made to sing.”

  I settled into the classes, the routine, and if I ached like hell for the first couple of weeks, well, that was the price of getting fit. These people knew exactly how far they could push their charges. This wasn’t some fanatical ballet school’s attempt to ensure the pupils never entered puberty or a cram school whose pupils were going to commit suicide if they didn’t get into the appropriate university. The Estate took a great deal of care not to push us too hard. After all, it was in the administrators’ best interests to produce excellent adult human beings, and putting undue pressure on our fragile bones and psyches wasn’t going to do that.

  That said, it turns out that children can handle a lot more pressure than is traditionally put on them.

  The battery of medical tests was a monthly thing, and standard for every pupil. The Estate was mad for unraveling the sources of the students’ unnatural abilities and was not discouraged by the almost complete failure to do so. One boy was linked to atmospheric phenomena in Iceland, but on such a deep and complex level that no one really understood how they were related. Another boy could only try to explain how he was tapping into the emotional state of every left-hander on the planet. It was a situation that led to widespread hair loss among the medical technicians as they tore at their scalps and suffered from stress-related shedding. Still, the staff took their readings, did their analyses, and stockpiled the information, vaguely hoping that future Checquy workers would have the technology or the insight to understand the data.

  I didn’t make friends. The first few weeks consisted of my frantically trying to adapt to the routine, the expectations. By the time I relaxed enough to notice those around me, I found it difficult to talk to them, and because they were constantly talking to one another, no one really noticed I wasn’t saying anything. I could never keep pace with them in the runs, not because I wasn’t fit (I became extremely fit) but because with their years of training, they were preternaturally athletic. In terms of academic achievement, I was in the top ten, but in the bottom half of the top ten. I was never really one of them.

  The work the instructors did with my abilities progressed, although not, I think, to their satisfaction. Training an individual with supernatural powers is a difficult gig to begin with. There is enormous variety in the types of abilities that manifest, and it is very hard to train someone to do something when you can’t actually do it yourself. At the very least, though, students at the Estate are taught from a very early age to be enthusiastic about their powers. They are encouraged to explore the boundaries of their abilities, and they want to learn.

  I, however, did not.

  I associated my powers with blood, pain, and doctors screaming and flailing about. I also understood that it was these powers that had led to my abruptly being taken away from my family. Combine that with a new wariness of other people, and you have a child who is extremely disinclined to touch people at all, let alone try to connect with their nervous systems.

  It was lucky, however, that although it had taken a great deal of pain and stress to activate my powers the first time, from then on I was able to engage them easily. But although I was able to do it, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to reach out across the table and place my finger on the bared arm of the lab assistant. I didn’t want to see if I could make her clench her fist. I didn’t want to extend my senses through that connection and explore her body. I didn’t want to be near people and I certainly didn’t want to put my mind inside them.

  Of course, I did it in the end. Progress was achingly slow, but over the months and years, I gained the power to touch people and possess instant control of their bodies. I could make them move however I pleased. I could read their physical condition, detect pregnancy, cancer, a full bladder. Over time, I developed much more subtle control, introducing new sensations into their perceptions or, in some cases, activating their special abilities without their consent.

  It was horrible; I hated it.

  In addition, everyone at the Estate knew about my abilities and my limitations. People went out of their way to avoid physical contact with me. I won’t say I was shunned—they were nice enough, and no one was cruel or bullied me, but they would step aside in corridors as I was passing. I was given more personal space than the twins who could render you color-blind with a touch or the girl whose right hand raised boils. Pretty much the only skin-to-skin contact I had was in a clinical setting. And I was fine with that.

  When I graduated from the Estate, I had an ability that was unique in recorded history, and a deep aversion to using it. I also had the impression that my powers had not advanced nearly as far as the Checquy had hoped.

  8

  No, neither of us would like a Toblerone,” said Tidy Twin. For a moment, Myfanwy toyed with eating the chocolate right there and then, but Cool Twin was busily opening a folder, and Tidy Twin had begun to speak.

  “Myfanwy, it seems that your suspicions were correct. The interrogation department began a full examination of the tapes and transcripts, as you suggested. It appears you have put quite the fear of Rook Thomas in them.” Tidy Twin sat back while Cool Twin finished consulting his documents and jumped in.

  “Dr. Crisp ordered them to pay particular attention to the last few moments, the death shrieks. Almost immediately, the technicians realized that those were coherent words. And as soon as the translators figured out what was being said, they dispatched a runner to your office.” The twin paused. “The runner tripped over me in the hallway, and I said that I would share the dispatches with you.” Myfanwy did her best to look calm, but inside she was seething. How dare he read my mail? she thought. When Gestalt offered her the note, she practically snatched it out of his hand. Ignoring the surprised scowls on both twins’ faces, she hurriedly skimmed the message. She was not surprised to see that Dr. Crisp had dreadful handwriting. Nevertheless, she was able to make out what the last, gasped words of Van Syoc had been.

  I scout for the invasion… we will kill you all.

  “Invasion,” she breathed. She looked up at the twins and realized that the grimaces on their faces were not from displeasure, but fear. “Gestalt, we need to know more.”

  “I agree,” said Tidy Twin. “But the Court must be informed as soon as possible, and this information is too sensitive to entrust to any more messengers. Do you concur?”

  “I do,” Myfanwy said seriously.

  “Ingrid,” called Cool Twin. The woman in purple came in immediately. “How long until sundown?”

  “Approximately three and a half hours, Rook Gestalt,” Ingrid replied without batting an eye.

  “The days had to start getting longer,” said Tidy Twin, seething. “Contact Apex House and tell them that the Court needs to convene as soon as possible—the meeting will need to be moved up to tonight, as soon as the sun has set.” Ingrid nodded and stepped out of the room quickly. “Well, Rook Thomas, it appears that we shall be up late. I would advise you to take a nap and get a very early dinner.”
Myfanwy stared at him, incredulous that he was ordering her around like this. Also, she wasn’t thrilled with the tone he’d taken with Ingrid. Under her gaze, the twins cleared their throats uncomfortably.

  “Rook Thomas, I also wish to apologize for losing my temper so violently during the questioning when the subject mentioned the Grafters. You know the stories they told us at the Estate.”

  “Yes,” agreed Myfanwy solemnly, without any idea what Gestalt was talking about.

  “I, um, spoke to Crisp, and he’s agreed that nothing more needs to be said about the incident,” continued Tidy Twin, staring at her meaningfully. After a pause, Myfanwy agreed. Who are these Grafters that can freak out Gestalt so much it strangles someone? The twins were looking relieved as they stood up. “Thank you very much, Rook Thomas—the, uh, the shock, you know. I must say, you’re taking this very well. Much better than I would have expected,” said Tidy Twin. And with that, the twins left the room.

  Myfanwy noted down Grafters, and Ingrid came in.

  Lady Linda Farrier shifted uneasily in her sleep, her face twisting briefly in anxiety. Her eyelids moved faintly, and she bit her lower lip in concentration. The tall thin woman was lying on a Roman-style couch, facedown, one arm under her head, and the other thrust out and down so that her fingertips grazed the floor. Periodically, a ladylike snore would issue forth.

  The room was circular and dimly lit. There were no windows, and the walls reached up to a viewing gallery that stretched all the way around the room. On this gallery stood several men, all of them heavily armed. They were still, like gargoyles dressed in purple.

  Then she opened her eyes and rolled over, blinking. A massive yawn split her features, and she sat up. A small man in purple who had been sitting by the door stood up and walked over.

  “Harrison, please inform the Foreign and Colonial Office that the ambassador to China will have to be replaced immediately. He craves money too strongly to resist temptation. Also, there is a young gentleman in the town of Milton Keynes who is rapidly becoming murderously insane. I couldn’t get his name, but he lives in a white house, number fifty-seven, on some lane. It has a blue mailbox, and a willow on the front lawn. He has red hair and is uncircumcised.” Her secretary nodded obediently and took notes on an electronic organizer.

  “My Lady, the Rooks have called an emergency meeting of the Court. They’ve requested that the executive meeting be brought forward from Friday.”

  “Both of them?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Interesting. So when is this emergency meeting?” she asked, straightening her coat.

  “Fifteen minutes after sundown tonight” was the diffident answer.

  “Oh, of course. We have to take that into account, don’t we?” She sighed in exasperation.

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  “All right. Let Rook Thomas’s office know that I would still like to dine with her, and move our reservation up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Harrison replied.

  “I’m going back to sleep,” she said, lying back down. “I shall see if there’s anyone interesting asleep in America.”

  “That seems rather like a contradiction in terms, ma’am.”

  “God, you’re such a snob.”

  Chevalier Heretic Gubbins (Harry to his friends) was staring in vexation at his computer. The damn thing had frozen with twelve unsaved pages of directives on the screen, and he was trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to reboot the computer without losing everything he had written. He licked his teeth thoughtfully, evaluating the possibilities. Finally, he gave the thing a good slap.

  Nothing.

  “You piece of crap!” he exclaimed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Deep breath in. Slowly breathe out. Then he gave the thing another good slap.

  Nothing.

  “Unbelievable!” His secretary came in. “Fetch somebody from technical support or that woman who claims she can negotiate with computers and have this fixed.” He turned his attention back to the computer, and then looked up again. “What?”

  “You’re balancing on one hand again, sir,” the secretary replied. “And you’re getting footmarks on the ceiling. The cleaning staff has been complaining.”

  “Oh. Fine.” Gubbins flipped himself up the right way, and his secretary rolled her eyes.

  “In any case, sir, the Court meeting has been moved up. It’s now today right after sunset—emergency.”

  “Okay,” Gubbins sighed, and he took one leg off the ground. Then he lifted himself up onto one toe. “Piece-of-shit computer!”

  And that, Minister, is why you may not go to Australia!” snapped Conrad Grantchester. “You will die, and it will be in a very public, messy, media-filled environment.” He clicked a button, and the next slide came up on the large projection screen. An awful lot of it was red, but it was really the green bits that got the minister’s attention.

  “You have made enemies of some very powerful people. And they keep these things as pets. You see these pointy bits? You do? Those are designed to go into these soft bits, causing the soft bits to come out, and those soft bits, Minister, were not meant to leave your stomach.” Grantchester ignored the weeping and continued. “The government, the people, and the Checquy want those soft things to stay in your stomach. Therefore, you will not go to Australia.” And with that, he stood up and walked briskly out of the darkened conference room, trailing wisps of inky fog behind him.

  “He’ll need a few minutes,” Grantchester said to the ministerial aides who were standing about awkwardly in the hallway. “Joan!” he called to his secretary, who was right behind him. “Send someone in to clean up all that vomit, please. What’s next?”

  Joshua Eckhart was walking down a long dim tunnel. Water dripped on the tiles, where a thick layer of mold was growing. Eckhart’s rubber galoshes splashed in the ankle-deep water, which swirled murkily. Overhead the fluorescent lights (what were left of them) flickered. Behind Eckhart slogged a petite woman in purple waders and a purple raincoat. She was grimly holding on to a plastic-wrapped folder. Behind her were two men in purple holding plastic-wrapped guns.

  Finally, they came to a massive door bound in strips of brass, lead, and copper. Eckhart pressed his hands against a plate in the center and felt it heat against his palm. Little bubbles rose up in the metal around his fingers. There was the sound of hydraulic machinery. The door split open and each half was drawn back into the wall. He was about to step inside when his secretary tapped him on the shoulder.

  “The Rooks have called an emergency meeting of the Court, sir,” she said, holding up a waterproof mobile phone. “Fifteen minutes after sundown.”

  “Fine,” he sighed. Then he stepped through the doors, and his entourage followed. There was an unholy shrieking, a clashing of a multitude of chains, and the sound of huge rubbery limbs smacking against each other in impotent rage. Then Eckhart’s voice.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness. You look unchanged. Now, perhaps we shall talk about your country. Your subjects are very vulnerable without the unique protection you can bring them. And that is why you will do as we say.”

  There was a frenzied wailing in response.

  “No? Well, we shall see. Gentlemen, please shoot His Highness. In the left head this time, I think.”

  It was an old room in an old building and was decorated in a very specific style that showed the decorators were lacking both imagination and a second X chromosome. The paint, which had not been vibrant to begin with, was now faded to a distressing beige. The carpet didn’t shag and very likely never had. Even the light filtering through the windows was tired and respectable.

  Leather-covered armchairs were occupied by the elderly, the plump, the male. This is not to imply that the occupants possessed only one of the above characteristics. They were all, without exception, male. Plumpness or age or both were preferred, but not mandatory.

  Cigars were chewed, pipes sucked, and snuff sn
uffled. One clump of chairs was occupied by a group of men whose names you wouldn’t have recognized unless you were a particularly eager scholar of tedious politics and obscure government offices. Still, they had power.

  Sir Henry Wattleman was seated among these men and was wondering if he could fake some sort of seizure. After engaging in several hours of conversation, even tedious old men can get tired of being surrounded by old tedious men. He nodded thoughtfully as some person in charge of an obscure mineral pontificated on how important it (and, by extension, he) was. A waiter came up bearing a cordless telephone on a tray. The bylaws of the club forbade members to carry mobile phones on the premises, which was not that great a sacrifice since very few of them knew how to use them.

  “Sir Henry, there is a call for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, inwardly giving three cheers. “Hello?”

  “Sir Henry, this is Marilyn,” said his secretary from the lobby of the club, which was the farthest she was allowed into the building, having failed to fulfill any of the criteria of membership. She had mentioned that she could easily go back to the office and carry out her duties from there, but it was a sign of status at the club to have one’s aides waiting about, ready to dance attendance upon one. “The Rooks have called an emergency meeting of the Court. You’ll be gathering at Apex House right after sundown.”

  “I understand. I shall be right there,” he said with thick tones of false regret.

  “No, no, sir. You have several hours yet.”

  “Yes, absolutely. Have the car ready,” Wattleman replied. “Gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry, but it appears that I am needed. Duty calls. Right now.”

  The Toblerone proved to have been well worth the wait, and Ingrid had shyly accepted a few of the little mountains. Now they both sat on the couch, one with impeccable purple-clad posture and one slumped back on the cushions with her stocking feet up on the coffee table.