*
Felicity had not spent much time on the executive level of the Rookery. It was far nicer than the other levels. Rather than carpet tiles, there were polished wooden floors, and the paintings on the walls were much more valuable. The portraits seemed to be looking down at her disapprovingly as she left wet footprints behind her.
“Ah, good,” said Mrs. Woodhouse as Felicity entered the reception area. At that moment, the door to the Rook’s office opened and four people in finely tailored suits emerged. Felicity recognized them as the Rookery’s heads of Legal, Finance, Governance, and Communications. They were all looking rather startled to be leaving.
“I really am terribly sorry to cut this so short, ladies, gentlemen,” the Rook was saying. “But something extremely important has come up. Mrs. Woodhouse will reschedule our meeting.”
The four executives made polite if somewhat befuddled sounds and then noticed Felicity. They took in her hospital scrubs and wet socks, her messy hair, and the unmistakable vestiges of her earlier bout of weeping. Four pairs of eyes and a pair of nostrils narrowed (the head of Communications had unorthodox sensory capabilities). Unspoken was the obvious sentiment that she did not look, in any way, extremely important. Nonetheless, Felicity was beckoned into the Rook’s office, and the door was firmly shut behind her.
It was a large, pretty room with broad windows looking out on the City and imposing portraits lining the walls. A tasteful arrangement of roses in one of the corners filled the room with perfume. There didn’t appear to be any other exits. But it wasn’t the setting that Felicity was interested in. This was the first time that she had seen the Rook close up.
Of late, the Checquy had been rife with gossip about how Myfanwy Thomas had changed. In the past, she’d reportedly had trouble confronting telemarketers, let alone evil fleshcrafting alchemists. The few times Felicity had seen Rook Thomas in person, in the hallways, during all-staff meetings, or at the Rookery Christmas party, she’d gotten the impression of a woman desperate to avoid all human contact. Then, recently, word had trickled down that Rook Thomas was no longer self-effacing or shy. She’d actually been involved in combat and had acquitted herself rather impressively. Now when people did the wrong thing, she called them into her office and shouted at them rather than sending apologetic e-mails.
She looked like the old, unassertive Rook Myfanwy Thomas. In her early thirties, she was shorter than Felicity and had an unremarkable face and shoulder-length brown hair. But something had changed.
Interesting, thought Felicity. She holds herself differently. She’s no longer trying to make herself smaller. I wonder what happened to pull her out of her shell.
“Pawn Clements, thank you for coming,” said the Rook.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“You have my sincerest sympathies for the loss of your comrades. This is a horrendous tragedy.” To give the Rook credit, she looked Felicity in the eye and sounded really sympathetic. None of that stuff where they claim they know how you feel.
“Thank you. I actually haven’t been told anything yet, Rook Thomas. Is it — are they all gone?”
The other woman pressed her lips together for a moment and took a breath. “Our investigators are still examining the wreckage. However, they have found ID tags from six Checquy people, and some remains have already been identified. We have confirmation that Pawns Gardiner, Buchanan, and Cheng are dead. For the others, it may be some time before we can say for certain.”
“Oh,” said Felicity. She felt empty. All the tears inside her had been shed, and the last little flame of hope had just been extinguished. Gardiner and Buchanan had been two of the soldiers who’d stood guard at the entrance to the cube. They had been intended to carry word back to the Checquy if no one emerged from the OOM, but apparently they had never made it. And Andrea Cheng. Her powers had not been enough to save her. “I can confirm that Pawns Odgers and Jennings are also dead,” she said, her voice wavering a little.
“I am very sorry,” said the Rook. “I’d better let the appropriate people know.” She made a quick, quiet phone call and then turned back to Felicity. “You will, of course, be required to undergo an official debriefing from the head of your division and give a formal statement for the record.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But first I want you to tell me about it. And then we will decide just how comprehensive your official debriefing and formal statement will be,” said the Rook.
“I — okay,” said Felicity warily. Suddenly, this sounds complicated. The Rook gestured, not to the chairs in front of her desk but to the couch off to the side.
“Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?” The Rook put a call through to her EA, who brought in two pots of tea (Earl Grey for Felicity, peppermint for the Rook), a selection of biscuits, and a large fluffy towel for Felicity’s feet. “Thank you, Ingrid. I won’t be meeting with anyone for the rest of the day, and I would prefer not to take any calls.”
“I’ll push anything nonapocalyptic to tomorrow,” promised the EA, and she closed the door as she left.
“Now, Pawn Clements, I need you to tell me everything that happened. I will be recording our conversation and taking notes. We will each retain a copy of the recording and the notes, but I want your word that you will not share that material with anyone unless I instruct you to do so or unless you are called before an internal tribunal.”
“Rook Thomas, what is going on?” asked Felicity.
“We are still gathering information, but it is possible that what happened to you and your comrades has political implications. If so, the details must be kept off the official files. I may need to act on that information in a manner that... is not within normal parameters, which may expose me to formal disapproval. I do not want you left without any protection. This material will demonstrate that whatever action is taken as a result of your testimony, it is my responsibility and done on my orders.”
“Very well...” said Felicity cautiously. This was beginning to sound like the kind of political shenanigans she’d always tried to avoid. I’m just a soldier, she thought. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. But her general was there, right in front of her, asking for her trust. “I give you my word.”
The Rook sat down on the couch, set her tablet computer to record, and spoke clearly. She noted the time, date, and location and stated that she, Rook Myfanwy Alice Thomas, was interviewing Pawn Felicity Jane Clements. She asked Felicity if she would confirm those facts.
“Yes, that is the... situation?” she said uncertainly, looking to the Rook. The other woman nodded and smiled.
“Then let us proceed,” said the Rook. “Oh, but look, for God’s sake, take off those socks and dry your feet.”
It was a very odd debriefing, really, not at all like the clinical process that had always followed Felicity’s deployments. Rook Thomas held her teacup in both hands, and kept her notepad on her lap. After a while, she kicked off her shoes and nestled back in the corner of the couch with her feet up. Sometimes Thomas would interrupt to ask questions, and she scribbled notes, but mainly she just listened, nodding occasionally. She was a very good listener. At one point, when Felicity found herself getting a little teary, the Rook provided her with tissues.
As she recounted the events of the day before, Felicity forgot who she was talking to. Unconsciously, she brought her legs up and sat Indian-style on the couch, hugging a cushion.
“So, the uh, Oblong of Mystery — it was a room?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah.”
“And your team just walked into it.”