The Rook

by Daniel O'Malley

  When the car arrived at its destination, the door was opened by a nervous-looking gentleman of Indian ancestry who was dressed in camouflage fatigues.

  “Rook Thomas, it’s very nice to see you again. It’s been a few years.” He was about the same age as Myfanwy. She dithered for a moment, trying to figure out how to treat him. Expecting to be patronized, she’d been rallying the icy regality that had served her so well with the twerps at the interrogation. But this poor sod was so nervous that it seemed unnecessary—perhaps even unkind—to bully him.

  “Mahesh, it’s lovely to see you!” she exclaimed with a broad smile, accepting the hand he offered and stepping out of the car. “How long has it been?” she asked.

  “I don’t think we’ve seen each other since we graduated from the Estate,” said Poppat.

  “Ah, yes, the Estate. Good times,” said Myfanwy in a tone that suggested that those times, although good, were not a topic for current conversation. As Shantay stepped out of the car, Myfanwy turned. “Mahesh, this is Bishop Petoskey from the Croatoan. She is here to observe.” If anything, this terrified the Pawn further. “Bishop Petoskey, this is Pawn Poppat.”

  “Pawn Poppat. It’s a particular pleasure,” Shantay said. Myfanwy shot her a reproving look.

  “An honor, ma’am,” said Poppat with a nervous little bow. Myfanwy looked around. They were on a perfectly normal-looking street with tidy and respectable row houses, but there was an atmosphere of unnatural stillness, as if the houses couldn’t quite believe this whole thing was going on. At either end of the street were massive trucks blocking traffic access. There was an intensely irritating sound reverberating down the street and into Myfanwy’s frontal lobes.

  The chanting droned loudly and was not constant, shifting from an almost Gregorian invocation to a twisted yodel, as if someone were driving a steamroller over a crowd of Swiss musicians. If that’s been going on all night, I’m surprised more neighbors didn’t complain, thought Myfanwy.

  “So, what’s the situation?” she asked as Poppat led them toward an enormous armored truck. It seemed to consist of two large trailers conjoined by one of those accordion connectors. They entered at the end and walked through a narrow aisle. On either side, the Barghests sat on low benches, and Myfanwy snuck curious peeks at them. The soldiers were dressed in gray armor made of what looked like dull, hard plastic. They were solemn and had that deadly air of poised stillness that one finds in cocked bear traps. Some were carrying large weapons, and others were carrying nothing at all. As Myfanwy and her companions passed through, the troops nodded their heads respectfully.

  They passed into a short section lined with locked cage doors. Behind some of the doors were racks of guns; other cages were empty and would presumably act as temporary restraining cells. Then they went through a medical area, where a Pawn in scrubs was sterilizing her scalpel-like fingernails. Beyond that was the accordion joint, and then finally Poppat opened a door labeled COMMAND SUITE. Myfanwy observed glowing monitors everywhere, ergonomically padded chairs, and nerdy Pawns staring at the screens, tapping away on keyboards, and, in one case, industriously licking a monitor.

  Poppat fluttered around Myfanwy and Shantay like a mother hen, ensuring that they were settled comfortably and out of the way of the nerd Pawns. They thanked him and accepted the offer of coffee, which was delivered from the galley (through yet another door). Myfanwy couldn’t help noticing that the nerd Pawns were shooting them—especially her—anxious sidelong looks. It was as if they expected her to zap them if they tried to use the backspace button.

  “All right, Pawn Poppat,” said Myfanwy, prompting a muffled guffaw from Shantay. “Please fill us in on the situation.” He nodded, looking a little perturbed, and gestured toward the many monitors.

  “Well, we can be quite certain that everyone on the first two teams is dead,” he said with a little wobble in his voice. Myfanwy remembered that those would have been his people—the workmates he saw every day. “As per standard operating procedure”—There we go again, thought Myfanwy—“we evacuated the street and coordinated with local police to keep it discreet.”

  “What explanation did you give?” asked Shantay curiously.

  “We told the police it was a religious cult that had been messing with the gas mains, and that it needed to be kept quiet,” said Poppat calmly. “We told the neighbors it was a gas leak in a house with asbestos.”

  “Standard operating procedure,” contributed Myfanwy.

  “Absolutely,” said Poppat, seeming to relax after hearing the magical incantation. “All members of the first team were affixed with vital-sign monitors and were in full environmental gear. They proceeded in through the front door, and Cassie—she’s the team leader—reported that the entire inside appeared to be covered in a lumpy coating of purple fungus. They confirmed that the air was breathable and free of toxins. Then we lost contact.”

  “The transmission just cut out?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Like someone shut a door on the radio waves,” piped up one of the nerds at the computers, a plump girl with little tufts of leaves instead of hair and eyebrows. “That won’t happen this time,” she said with satisfaction.

  “Oh?” said Myfanwy, a little coolly. She was still trying to construct a credible Rook persona and figured that a Rook was not accustomed to being interrupted.

  “Yup,” the girl replied. “This team is being sent in with cameras, and they’ll be spooling out comm wires as well as being in contact via wireless means. And we’re stationing someone at the door to prevent it from shutting.”

  “Ingenious,” remarked Myfanwy dryly. Thank heavens we’re utilizing the very highest of tech. I could check if the budget will stretch to a couple of bricks for propping the door.

  “We should be ready to send the team in very soon,” said Poppat hastily. “Lydia,” he said to the plump nerd, “check with Barghest FitzPatrick to see if the team is prepared.” The Pawn at the computer nodded, the light glinting off the foliage covering her head. “Lydia is our communications specialist,” Poppat quietly explained to Myfanwy and Shantay. “She’s very accomplished.”

  “She’d better be, with an attitude like that,” whispered Shantay to Myfanwy.

  “Pawn Poppat,” said Lydia. “FitzPatrick says the Barghest team is ready.”

  “Excellent. Switch the channel onto the speakers, please.” The room suddenly filled with the hushed sounds of professional soldiers. Controlled breathing, the quiet creak of body armor, somebody sucking his teeth. Then a man’s deep voice came over the speaker.

  “Barghest FitzPatrick awaiting the order.” There was a pause; Myfanwy and Shantay stared raptly at the monitors, which had suddenly blossomed with images from all the Barghests’ cameras. Then Myfanwy realized nothing was happening.

  “Rook Thomas, you’re the ranking officer,” said Poppat apologetically. “You give the word.”

  “Oh! Okay,” said Myfanwy, flushing with embarrassment, trying to ignore the snort that had come from Lydia. “Begin the operation.” The lights in the trailer dimmed, turning red like a submarine’s in battle mode. The nerds leaned intently over their workstations.

  “I copy that” came FitzPatrick’s voice. “Barghest team, let’s move.”

  The light in the trailer shifted as the pictures on the screens changed. The entire team was jogging outside, moving toward the house. It was disorienting, watching the multiple perspectives move around crazily. Myfanwy blinked, feeling a little nauseated. She took a sip of coffee and found that it was terrible. That damned yodeling was building over the speakers. She looked back to the screens and saw that the team was entering the house. As the door opened, the sound grew stronger, and everyone in the trailer winced.

  “I’ll dial it down,” said Lydia. The sound grew less piercing, but it was still present, an irritating background.

  “Can you analyze this?” asked Shantay.

  “It’s being transmitted back to the Rookery labs,” said Lydia without lo
oking over. “They’ll let us know if they come up with anything.”

  “Loza, you’re holding the door,” they heard FitzPatrick say.

  “Aye, sir.”

  The command center dimmed as the team moved into the house. There were no lights inside, and sheer sheets of something purple covered the windows, muting the sunlight. Myfanwy squinted, trying to discern meaning from the shapes.

  “I’m switchin’ the cameras to night vision,” said a nerd with a thick Cockney accent. The monitors slid into a green tint, and what had previously been nebulous outlines sharpened into a bizarre vista. From what Myfanwy could make out, it was as if someone had taken a normal sitting room fully furnished with lamps, squashy armchairs, and so on, and draped a carpet of scummy fuzz over the entire place. The material covered the walls and ceiling and spread through the doorways.

  “What can you tell us, FitzPatrick?” asked Poppat intently.

  “This stuff is purple, and rubbery underfoot. It smells like… what would you say, Turner?”

  “It’s fungal,” said a gravel-voiced Pawn. “Not unlike Aspergillus fumigatus, but with a few extra factors I don’t recognize. Not synthetics, though.”

  “Who is this Turner?” whispered Myfanwy to Poppat. One of the nerds tapped rapidly on his keyboard, and Turner’s file was up on a monitor. She looked automatically at the heading “Advantage” and saw that Turner had enhanced olfactory senses and an eidetic memory.

  “FitzPatrick, any sign of the previous teams?” asked Poppat.

  “No, sir, not here in the entryway.”

  “All right, proceed through the house, staggering your troops.” Poppat turned to Myfanwy and Shantay. “We’re placing them throughout the premises, each pair of sentries stationed within sight of the previous pair.”

  Myfanwy nodded. It made sense.

  The Pawns cautiously spread out over the ground floor, depositing sentries at strategic corners and doorways. The wires the soldiers were spooling out glistened against the fungus that covered everything. The rest of the rooms gave the same impression of a regular life hastily covered up with a thick cover of mold. There was even a vase of flowers on the kitchen table, each petal covered in a lumpy purple skin.

  “Sir, there’s no sign of the teams or of any other individuals,” said FitzPatrick. Myfanwy guessed that the background of chanting was grating on all the Pawns’ nerves. Though Lydia had toned it down, even the hushed version they were hearing in the trailer made her ill at ease.

  “FitzPatrick, this is Rook Thomas. Is there any sign of where the sound is originating?”

  “Upstairs, Rook,” said FitzPatrick. “Shall we proceed up there?”

  “Is the ground floor secured?” Poppat asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then call your stationed troops except those necessary for maintaining sight lines to the front door. And proceed.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Pawns went up the stairs, leaving a pair at the base and another pair at the head of the staircase.

  Lydia cleared her throat. “The Rookery has noted a change in the chanting; they’re analyzing and comparing,” she said, still intent on the monitors in front of her.

  “I didn’t notice anything,” whispered Myfanwy to Shantay. “Did you?” The American Bishop shook her head. The team of Pawns came to the first door, which was ajar. Just as FitzPatrick was leaning forward to push it open with his rifle, several things happened at once.

  The monitor showing the Pawn at the front door flashed as she was jerked inside the house.

  All the other pictures moved rapidly too as the Pawns swung around at the sound of Loza’s scream. Then a wave of material rose up from the floor and covered the cameras.

  There was a brief flurry of screams and gunfire.

  The front door swung shut, slicing neatly through the cables the Pawns had brought with them.

  Holy fuck, thought Myfanwy in horror. Holy mother of fuck.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and Myfanwy took a deep breath. You are the Rook, so keep calm.

  “Any ideas?” she asked collectedly, though her heart was still pounding. The screams had torn through the room before wireless contact was abruptly lost. The nerd Pawns were typing frantically, licking monitors, and talking with great urgency on headsets and cell phones. It was evident that nobody had yet figured out what was going on or what to do, so Myfanwy sat back patiently and waited for them to come up with answers. A few of them shot nervous looks at her over their shoulders, and she pretended not to notice.

  “Any thoughts, Bishop Petoskey?” she asked Shantay quietly, folding her fingers together to keep them from shaking.

  “Uh, well, this is certainly not like anything I’ve ever seen before,” replied Shantay with a fair bit of awe. “We don’t get these sorts of manifestations that frequently.”

  “Yes, well, I gather this is quite unusual even for us,” Myfanwy said, desperately casual.

  “So what do you intend to do?” asked Shantay.

  “Oh, I’m sure Pawn Poppat will follow his beloved standard operating procedure,” she answered, casting a look over at the Pawn, who was rushing about madly and being very busy indeed. “I don’t like to bother him. It must be difficult enough having an emergency occur in front of the boss without having her demanding to be kept entertained.” In fact, Poppat was bustling over toward her.

  “Rook Thomas, standard operating procedure dictates that at this point we have the house destroyed, either with explosives or with a ring of—” He was cut off abruptly by an excited shout from the other end of the command center.

  “They’re alive!” one of the techno-Pawns shouted. Everybody froze and watched the monitors as he rapidly brought up the screens that showed the vital signs of the team members. Myfanwy remembered seeing them when she came in while Poppat explained that every Barghest had been fitted with extensive monitoring equipment under his armor.

  “They’re all alive?” asked Myfanwy intently. Is this good or bad?

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the technician. “All the Barghests. According to these indicators, they haven’t had anything introduced into their systems, and while they’re all quite excited—heart rates up and so on—they haven’t been harmed.”

  “How unfortunate,” said Pawn Poppat.

  “Unfortunate?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Well, yes,” said Pawn Poppat. “Because we still have to destroy the site…” He trailed off. Myfanwy turned to the techno-Pawn.

  “Are they… moving?” she asked carefully.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Shit.

  “Are they conscious?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Double shit.

  “Ah.” Myfanwy pursed her lips and turned to Poppat. “You know, Mahesh, I feel somewhat hesitant about wiping the building off the face of the earth, since we have people alive in there.”

  “I can understand that, Rook Thomas,” Poppat began, “but standard oper—”

  “Yes?” she interrupted, with her eyebrows high.

  “Well, it is quite clear, and Rook Gestalt has never hesitated to—”

  “Yes, quite.” There was an uncomfortable silence, broken mercifully and hesitantly by Lydia.

  “Rook Thomas? The Rookery has an update on the analysis of the chanting.”

  “Anything useful?” she asked. Am I going to have to sign a death sentence for fourteen of my people?

  “I think you need to hear it,” said Lydia.

  “All right,” sighed Myfanwy. Lydia twisted some selector knob. The chanting increased throughout the room, but a part of it had been augmented, amplified. Now layered over the droning was a tense voice, insistently repeating itself.

  “Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook…”

  “Figures,” said Myfanwy bitterly.

  20

  Dear You,

  Six girls. Eight boys. That’s the current number of kids in the Camp Caius stabl
e, and they’re an intriguing little bunch of brats, ranging in age from eleven to twenty-two. The pages I copied give me the basic details, but only the barest beginning in describing their powers. The impression I get, however, is that these kids are possessed of nothing in the way of natural power but rather undergo an extraordinary amount of surgery with an eye toward instilling abilities, which is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of.

  This whole endeavor is completely alien to the Checquy style of doing things and it is, as far as I know, almost impossible. I’m not even sure why these kids were chosen. See, the students don’t seem to have anything in common. They all come from different parts of the country, and their families are from different social classes and backgrounds. I’ve researched their families, I’ve checked their NHS records, I’ve looked into everything about them, and I can’t find a reason that they were plucked out of their homes.

  Let’s face it. If you want to look at this in as cold a manner as possible, there are plenty of children out there that can be gotten easily. Orphans. Street children. Hell, you can import them. Given how long Camp Caius has been around, you could probably breed them. But these children were taken from private British families—so you have the people of Camp Caius putting themselves to enormous trouble for no apparent reason. Doing this sort of thing is a major task even for the Checquy, so I just don’t understand it.

  Once in a while, I sit back, amazed at what the Checquy does. From what little I recall of my family life, it was pretty tight. My parents were educated people, relatively well-off, independent. And yet they crumpled when Wattleman and Farrier told them that the Checquy was taking me. You’d expect a fight from them. A word of protest. Even a lawsuit. At the very least, you’d expect them to contact the media. If the government comes and takes your kid, you’re going to talk about it. Maybe look for some support group. Instead, families keep it secret. And why?

  Well, many of the Estate students are unnatural. Think about Gestalt. Would you want that in your house? So a lot of parents are relieved to have their children taken away. In fact, some are willing to pay. For those whose families do want them, it gets uglier, because the Checquy has been doing this for a very long time and they have become very good at it. They lie, they threaten, they make promises. And they have the law backing them up. I’m still not sure exactly what story Wattleman and Farrier gave my father that last day. I wasn’t paying very close attention.