(a) A nondescript man walked into the station and, with his bare hands, broke the neck of the person closest to him before turning and locking the door he had come through. A large constable had gone after him with a collapsible baton and had his head actually punched off his torso for his trouble. At that point, the entire station had mobilized, weapons were fetched, and in a few moments the man was looking down the barrels of a number of guns and some Tasers. He surveyed the room with a raised eyebrow and gave a snort of amusement. Then,
(b) after ignoring instructions to drop his weapon, he shrugged off the many, many bullets that thudded into his body. Regarding the blank stares of the cops with a smirk, the man raised his arms, and, with a grunt of effort (according to the emergency call of the frantic police chief),
(c) “he made these sort of fleshy tentacle things just explode out of his arms, reach out, and impale the people around the room. There was blood splashing everywhere, and then he reeled the people in, and his skin started eating out over them, pulling them into his body. And now he’s growing all lumpy because they’re inside of him, and he’s getting huge and—oh my God, no! Send help! Please!”
(d) The Checquy mobilized immediately and arrived to find the streets around the station nearly deserted, since the good people of Reading were not accustomed to hearing barrages of gunfire emanating from the police station on a Saturday afternoon. The sounds of the firearms, combined with unearthly screams and blood spattering on the windows, had served to drive a large portion of the populace away. The Reading Checquy’s Situation Response Team arrived almost immediately, isolated the area, gently ushered the remaining onlookers away, and deterred the media.
“With your approval, Rook Thomas, I will be retaining command of the operation. The Barghests were automatically called in and you were notified because we’re at some color crisis level,” finished Cyrus.
“Chartreuse,” said Pawn Alan helpfully. Everybody looked at him, and he shrank a little under their regard.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” asked Pawn Cyrus.
“This is Li’l Paw… I’m sorry, this is Pawn Alan… something,” fumbled Myfanwy.
“Summerhill,” ventured Pawn Alan.
“Pawn Alan here heard something that I am going to need to tell you,” said Myfanwy to Cyrus, “and which no one in this car is going to tell anyone else. Now, you know how everyone in the organization is scheduled for these medical examinations?”
“Yes, I heard that they’re not pleasant,” said Pawn Cyrus. “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, no, they’re great,” said Myfanwy. “But the reason we’re having them is the same reason we have people getting shot and, er, impaled in Reading.”
“I’m not certain I understand,” said Pawn Cyrus.
“It’s the Grafters,” said Myfanwy, and she watched as the blood drained out of his face. Her focus was disrupted, however, when the large bodyguard dropped his gun and everyone in the car flinched.
“Now, Cyrus,” Myfanwy said, after the large guard had shamefacedly picked up his gun, “the information I have given you cannot be shared with anyone. I can only hope it will help you with the approach you take to this operation, which you will, of course, retain command of. The Barghests will be yours to unleash. I am here just to observe.” She tried not to think of the last time she’d appeared just to observe. From the expression on his face, Cyrus was trying not to think of it either.
“Is this the beginning of another invasion?” he asked anxiously.
“No,” said Myfanwy. “At least, I don’t think so. I gather that this is more of a warning. But of course, there’s always the possibility the Grafters might take advantage of a moment of weakness, so we need to subdue this quickly.” Cyrus was looking ill, and Li’l Pawn Alan looked like he was going to burst into tears. Myfanwy felt a headache coming on in the very front of her head.
“So,” she said, “Cyrus, do you happen to know anything about a John Perry?”
“Of course,” said Cyrus.
“A John Perry from Reading?” she said suspiciously.
“Of course. John Perry from Reading,” said Cyrus. “Rook John Perry.”
“Rook John Perry?” repeated Myfanwy.
“Rook John Perry, the most renowned Checquy operative ever to come from Reading,” said Cyrus. “Rook John Perry, one of the most renowned Checquy operatives ever.”
“Oh,” said Myfanwy, shooting dirty looks at everyone else in the car who did not have amnesia and so had no reasonable excuse for not being able to identify Perry. “Refresh my memory,” she directed.
“He was key in stopping the invasion of the Isle of Wight by the Grafters,” said Cyrus.
God, this skinned Belgian really holds a grudge, thought Myfanwy as she and everyone else who wasn’t from Reading sank into a guilty silence, and Cyrus managed to look simultaneously insulted by their ignorance and concerned about the prospect of the Grafters in his town. He placed a call on his mobile phone and began speaking in a tone that was both hushed and frantic.
“Rook Thomas, are you all right?” asked Ingrid suddenly. Myfanwy looked up in surprise and realized that she was pressing her knuckles against her temples.
“I’m getting a headache right in front of us.”
“Right in front of us?” repeated Cyrus.
“It’s highly specific,” Myfanwy said shortly. “Do we have any aspirin in this car?” Everyone looked around vaguely.
“We have Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” said Ingrid, who was examining the minibar.
“Really?” asked the large bodyguard with unseemly enthusiasm.
“I am not going to drink whisky on an empty stomach on the way to a manifestation,” said Myfanwy. “Nor are any of you,” she added pointedly as the large bodyguard cast a wistful look at the bar. “Now, Ingrid, you have nothing in your purse?”
“I’m sorry, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid. “Perhaps there is some sort of first aid kit. Would you like us to check with the driver?”
“No… yes… I don’t know,” said Myfanwy, wincing in pain. “This is not normal. It feels like, like…”
“Like what?” asked Li’l Pawn Alan, excitedly.
“Like it’s coming from outside my head,” said Myfanwy.
“What?” asked Alan. “Where?”
“There!” spat Myfanwy, pointing ahead of them to a large building surrounded by Checquy troops and vehicles. “Right there!”
34
Dear You,
The heart wasn’t much of a lead. They ran it through every scanning device known to man and got that anorexic girl who claims to be psychometric to try a reading, but even she got nothing. So the heart is now down in one of the locked fridges, and I am without a clue as to why it was sent to me. If I were in a better mood and had a shit sense of humor, I’d suggest that it was a valentine, but I shall restrain myself and instead talk about our latest acquisition—and how I got stuck with a hasty cover-up operation.
There has been a rumor going around the community for years that there was some sort of animal out there, in private possession, that could tell the future. Now, the Checquy sees its share of precogs, psychics, and ball-gazers (both crystal and otherwise), and they are, without fail, absolute crap. Usually we get an irritating prophecy that will, inevitably, rhyme but not scan and that is so metaphor-laden as to render it completely incomprehensible. Or else it’s some twit who wants his epilepsy to have a greater meaning. So, while we feel somewhat obliged to keep looking for psychics, we don’t pay too much heed to what they say.
You can see why we would be quite keen to get our hands on any creature that could accurately predict the future—an animal would be much less likely to be faking it for attention. A team of agents had been tasked with finding and acquiring it through fair means or foul. They followed hundreds of leads, scoured the kingdom, and managed to spend an astonishing amount of money. (I know, because guess who did the accounting and administrating of this little fiasco.) Agents retired and were replace
d. Several times they thought they had found the beast—although the rumor had never been clear on what species it actually was.
As a result, over the course of the endeavor, I received several swine, a goat, a rabbit, a Jack Russell terrier, and, my personal favorite, a cardboard box containing what the finder proudly declared were “the prophetic snails of Beccles.” Each of these had been unveiled, with great fanfare, to the members of the Court. Needless to say, none of these specimens were able to see the future. Or if they could, they were unwilling to communicate their findings to us. All that came of the endeavor was professional embarrassment. Oh, and I got to keep the rabbit.
This ridiculous exercise in futility was one of the things I inherited upon becoming Rook, and I would gladly have dropped it, but it is one of Wattleman’s pet obsessions, and so I was obliged to keep it up.
But this morning it was confirmed. The team had finally acquired the animal, and exhaustive tests by our top scientists had been conducted. And so I found myself laboriously penning formal invitations to the members of the Court to come dine at the Rookery tonight before observing the unbelievably magical amazingness of the United Kingdom’s only oracular duck.
Of course, I couched it all in slightly more impressive terms.
I sent the invitations out via the Rook’s Messenger and tried to get on with my work. Generally, it consumes all my time, but today I couldn’t focus. Hours passed with me staring blankly at my computer, unable to concentrate. Eventually, I realized that I was having doubts about the duck.
If you think about it, quite aside from the unlikelihood of a duck being able to tell the future, the odds that our motley crew had finally found the one and only psychic animal in the kingdom were not good. And frankly, I did not relish the prospect of whipping off the cover and presenting the Court with a non-oracular duck. After so many awkward mistakes, the search team had assured us that this time they’d definitely found the right animal, but it didn’t do much to settle my nerves. So there was really nothing for it; I was going to have to go down there and check out the duck for myself.
I wanted to see the duck so I could test not only whether it could communicate its predictions clearly, but also whether it could predict accurately. A duck intelligent enough to communicate with people might (I thought) be intelligent enough to lie about telling the future. But I was in a unique position to test its skills because I already knew what my future held. So, down I traipsed to the labs, walking through the corridors, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground. As always, I tried not to make eye contact with the staff. I’m always so embarrassed by those little bows and curtsies I get, and besides, who knows what they’re thinking? Everyone here knows who I am, and I realize they hold no great respect for me.
Still, they do respect my position, and so when I asked for some time alone with the subject, it was hurriedly arranged. The staff paused in their tests and their grooming of the feathered fortune-teller and ushered me into a soundproof white room, where I sat with a duck and a laptop computer. Well, the duck had the computer, with an oversize keyboard that the boffins had rigged up for it (apparently, there had been problems with beak-to-key-size ratio). Dr. Crisp had just explained the details of how the duck worked.
“We’re talking old-school fairy tales, Rook Thomas,” he had said genially. “Only three questions per person. Ever. And it has to be done in one sitting. Yes or no answers.”
It’s actually kind of alarming to see a duck in person. They’re taller than you would think, and more… immediate. We stared at each other, the duck and I, and I hate to admit it, but I blinked first.
“Yes, well. I am Rook Thomas,” I said to the duck. “But perhaps you already knew that?” The duck gave no response other than nuzzling at its feathers with its beak.
“So, do you have a name?” I asked, trying to strike up some sort of rapport. The duck looked over at me and promptly shat on the table. Clearly, this was not going to be a conversational meeting. I turned my attention away from small talk and got down to asking about the future.
“Duck, will I be attacked by operatives of the Checquy?” I asked. Its neck straightened abruptly, and it pecked the Y button on the keyboard. Its answer displayed on the monitor.
Since my fate had already been predicted by, among others, a schoolboy, a homeless man, and a thirty-seven-hundred-year-old oracle, this wasn’t the greatest revelation in the world, but I was impressed with the duck’s rapid response. I tried to decide what to ask next. It was a unique opportunity to gain an advantage.
“Duck, um, will I be attacked in my house?”
N.
I heaved a great sigh of relief. I’d been imagining that I would be jerked out of my sleep or have to watch as my rabbit was killed in front of me, and I could dismiss those fears now. But I could still ask one question. What did I need to know? I felt horribly weary, aware as always of everything that needed to be done before the end came. Did I have time?
“Duck, will I… will I lose my memory within a month?”
Y.
I put my hands over my face for a good minute, and the duck just sat there, each of us thinking our own thoughts. I appreciated that it ignored me. It left me free to frantically recalculate my schedule. I’d never known when it was going to happen—when I was going to “lose everything,” as Lisa had put it—but I’d always assumed that there would be time to prepare. And now, now I know that I have weeks at most.
Lost in thought, I absently thanked the duck and left the room. The other members of the Court would be arriving soon. And besides, the smell of duck shit was not terribly pleasant.
What the hell were you doing in there, Myfanwy?” Teddy Gestalt demanded. Dr. Crisp’s team of scientists looked up in surprise. “The rest of the Court will be here in a couple of hours, and I come back from Stirling to find you meddling with this new acquisition instead of making the necessary preparations for a formal reception and presentation.”
“All of that has been attended to, Rook Gestalt,” I said mildly. “I just wanted to make sure that the duck was working properly. You may not recall, but we’ve actually had several false starts in the pursuit of this particular item, and—”
“Are you implying that I am ignorant of what goes on here?” exclaimed Gestalt in a poisonous tone. “That I have not been spending enough time here in the Rookery? Because if you would like to start going out to the various field operations, Myfanwy, then you are more than welcome.” He stared triumphantly at me, secure in the knowledge that I would never want to do such a thing. For one brief, shining moment I wished I could casually accept. Just to shut him up.
Then I remembered you, and the preparations that still needed to be made. I’d never finish everything in time if I started traveling around the country.
“No, Rook Gestalt, that won’t be necessary,” I said in a small voice.
“Very well, then. You will probably want to wash your face and get changed,” he said. “This is going to be a very important evening.”
“I know that it’s important, Gestalt. I do. That’s why I have asked the subject three questions in order to confirm that it can indeed provide accurate predictions of the future. I’m sure you also want to be confident that we don’t deliver a bogus oracle to the Lord and Lady.” Gestalt licked his lips nervously. Wattleman’s fascination with the project was infamous, and the potential for humiliation was very real.
“What about the tests that Crisp and the others performed?”
“I preferred to verify for myself,” I said carefully. “The prospect of Sir Henry Wattleman, VC-Enshrouded Co-head of the Checquy, posing vital questions to an ordinary waterfowl and receiving nothing but some crap on the table does not appeal to me. I don’t think it would do either of our careers much good.”
Gestalt grimaced and I continued, keeping my tone level and uninterested.
“I have asked three questions about this evening. The duck’s answers should be confirmed by the time we are supposed to rev
eal it to the Court. If it has been proven wrong, then we shall simply say so, and exchange humiliation for embarrassment.”
“Hmm,” said Gestalt thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is not a bad idea. In fact, maybe I should also—” Whatever Gestalt was going to say was cut off when a meek-looking aide appeared and whispered that the members of the Court were going to be arriving early. “Never mind,” he said, and I was relieved that he hadn’t thought to ask what questions I had posed to the duck. “How long do we have?”
“The first car is on its way now,” said the aide cautiously, wary of Gestalt’s infamous temper.
“Now?” we repeated in aghast unison. The aide looked surprised and decided to include me in the conversation.
“Yes, and Sir Henry just called to let us know that he is bringing a special visitor.”
“A special visitor?” we again said in unison.
“Yes, an important visitor who is to be seated to Sir Henry’s right at the dinner table,” said the aide, wilting under our fixed stares. Gestalt and I turned to each other.
“An important visitor?” he said to me. “The duck didn’t mention this?”
“What? No!” I said. “I didn’t waste a prophetic-duck question on the possibility of unexpected dinner guests. Do you even know how the duck works?”
“No,” said Gestalt. “And I don’t care. But a special visitor… presumably one who is not in the Checquy—”
“Who is to be seated at the table next to Wattleman,” I said. “And—”
“Who has been invited to a secret unveiling,” said Gestalt.
“The secret unveiling of a major supernatural find that could influence the future of the nation,” I said.
“Prime Minister?” asked Gestalt.
“Or royalty,” I suggested.
“Fuck!” we said together, and we bolted, leaving behind us a team of scientists who had been privy to our dialogue and were now rushing back into the soundproof room to groom the duck and get it ready for its big performance. When important personages are brought into an equation, everything gets more complicated. Everything needed to be perfect.