Endgame: The Calling Page 3

  He passes by the thugs without a word. He is lost in thoughts of the 11 other Players, scattered around the world, each with a meteor of their own. He wonders what they will be like, what lines they come from. For the lines do not know the other lines. They cannot know. Not until the Calling.

  And the Calling is coming.

  Will some be stronger than him? Smarter? Will one even be uglier?

  Perhaps, but it is no matter.

  Because Jago knows that he can, and will, kill them all.

  Not the first not the last. vii

  BAITSAKHAN

  Gobi Desert, 222 km South of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia

  Baitsakhan wants it, and he’s going to get it.

  He rides hard south into the Gobi Desert with his twin cousins, Bat and Bold, both 12.5, and his brother, Jalair, 24.55.

  Baitsakhan has been 13 for 7.23456 days and is just eligible for Endgame.

  He is happy about this.

  Very happy.

  The meteor fell in the middle of the night two days ago in the vast central nothingness of the Mongolian steppe. A small group of old yak herders saw it, and they called it in to Baitsakhan’s grandfather Suhkbataar, who told them to leave it alone or they would be sorry. The herders listened. Everyone in the steppe knows to listen to Suhkbataar in strange matters like these.

  Because of this, Baitsakhan knows that the space rock will be there, waiting, alone. But when they are about a half mile from the impact zone they see a small group of people, and a worn Toyota Hilux, sitting in the distance.

  Baitsakhan reins his horse and slows it to a walk. The other riders pull alongside him. Jalair draws a brass telescope from a saddlebag and looks across the plain. He makes a low sound.

  “Who are they?” Baitsakhan asks.

  “Don’t know. One wears an ushanka. Another has a rifle. The truck has three external gas cans. One of the men is leaning on a long pry bar. Two are bending to the ground. The one with the rifle is going toward the Hilux.”

  Bat rests a longbow across his lap. Bold absently checks his smartphone. No signal, of course, not this far out. He opens Temple Run and starts a new game.

  “Do they have the rock?” Baitsakhan asks.

  “Hard to tell . . . wait. Yes. Two are carrying something small but heavy. It’s wrapped in hide.”

  “Have they seen us?” Bat asks.

  “Not yet,” Jalair says.

  “Let’s introduce ourselves,” Baitsakhan says.

  Baitsakhan kicks his horse and it launches into a canter. The others follow. Each of the horses is light brown with a braided mane and black tail. Dust rises behind the beasts. The group around the meteorite notices them, but they don’t show any alarm.

  When they draw very near, Baitsakhan reins his horse and, before it stops, jumps from the saddle. “Hello, friends!” he calls. “What have you found?”

  “Why should we tell you?” the man with the pry bar says cockily. He has a low, raspy voice and a thick, excessively groomed mustache. Next to him is the man in the Russian hat. Between them on the ground is the hide-wrapped bundle.

  “Because I asked,” Baitsakhan answers politely.

  Bat gets off his horse and begins to casually check his animal’s shoes and hooves for rocks. Bold, still in the saddle, gets his phone out and restarts Temple Run.

  A short grizzled man with horribly pockmarked skin steps forward. “Forgive him. He’s like that with everyone,” he says.

  “Shut up, Terbish,” Pry Bar says.

  “We think we found a shooting star,” Terbish says, ignoring Pry Bar.

  Baitsakhan leans toward the bundle. “Can we see it?”

  “Yeah, not every day you get to see a meteorite,” Jalair says from atop his horse.

  “What’s going on?” someone calls. It’s the man returning from the Hilux. He’s tall and casually holds a .30-06 at his side.

  “These kids want to see the rock,” Terbish says, studying Baitsakhan. “And I don’t see why not.”

  “Cool!” Baitsakhan exclaims. “Jalair, check out this crater!”

  “I see it.”

  Baitsakhan doesn’t know, but this meteorite is the smallest of the 12. Less than 0.2112 meters. The smallest rock for the youngest Player.

  Terbish smiles. “I found one of these when I was about your age,” he says to Baitsakhan. “Near the Chinese border. The Soviets took it, of course. They took everything in those days.”

  “So they say.” Baitsakhan sticks his hands in his jean pockets. Jalair dismounts, his feet crunching on the gravel.

  Terbish turns toward the bundle. “Altan, unwrap the thing.”

  The man in the ushanka bends and peels back the pony hide. Baitsakhan peers into it. The thing is a hunk of black metal the size of a small shoe box, pockmarked with glowing lattices of gold and verdigris ingots, like extraterrestrial stained glass. Baitsakhan removes his hands from his pockets and drops to a knee. Terbish stands over him. Pry Bar sighs. Rifleman takes a few steps forward. Bat’s horse whinnies as Bat adjusts the girth.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Terbish says.

  “Looks valuable,” Baitsakhan says innocently.

  Jalair points. “Is that gold?”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have shown it to them,” Pry Bar says.

  “They’re boys,” Terbish says. “This is like a dream come true. They can tell their friends at school about it.”

  Baitsakhan stands. “We don’t go to school.”

  “No?” Terbish wonders. “What do you do then?”

  “Train,” Jalair says.

  “For what?” Pry Bar asks.

  Baitsakhan takes a pack of gum out of his vest and pops a piece in his mouth. “Do you mind if we check something, Terbish?”

  Terbish frowns. “What?”

  “Go ahead, Jalair,” Baitsakhan says.

  But Jalair has already started. He quickly bends over the meteorite. He has a small black stone in his hand. It has a series of perfectly cut T-shaped holes in it. He runs his hand over the rock, underneath it. His eyes widen. “Yes, this is it,” he says.

  Bold turns off his smartphone, puts it in a cargo pocket on his pant leg, spits.

  “Bubble gum?” Baitsakhan holds the pack of gum out for Terbish.

  Rifleman frowns and moves the gun across his body, holding it with two hands.

  Terbish shakes his head. “No thanks. We’re going to be going now.”

  Baitsakhan pockets the gum. “Okay.”

  Jalair stands as Altan starts to rewrap the boulder.

  “Don’t bother,” Jalair orders.

  Pry Bar huffs. “You little shits seriously aren’t trying to say you’re taking this thing, are you?”

  Baitsakhan blows a pink bubble. It bursts across his face and he gobbles it back into his mouth. “That’s exactly what we’re saying.”

  Terbish draws a skinning knife from his belt and takes a step backward. “I’m sorry, kid, but I don’t think so. We found it first.”

  “Some yak herders found it first.”

  “I don’t see any yak herders around here,” Pry Bar says.

  “We told them to leave. And they know to listen. The rock belongs to us.”

  “He’s being modest,” Jalair adds. “It actually belongs to him.”

  “You?” Terbish asks doubtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha!” Pry Bar says, holding the rod like a quarterstaff. “I’ve never heard anything so ridicu—”

  Jalair cuts Pry Bar short by grabbing the rod, twisting it free, and slamming the pointed end into Pry Bar’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him. Rifleman shoulders the .30-06, but before he can fire, an arrow strikes him cleanly through the neck.

  They’d forgotten about Bat behind his horse.

  Altan, the man in the hat, gets his hands around the bundle, but Bold throws a black metal dart at him, about eight inches long and a half inch in diameter. It strikes Altan through the hat’s earflap and drives a few inches into hi
s head. He collapses and begins to foam at the mouth. His arms and legs dance. His eyes roll.

  Terbish is full of terror and disbelief. He turns and sprints for the truck.

  Baitsakhan blows a short whistle through his teeth. His horse trots next to him; he jumps on, kicks it in its side. It catches Terbish in seconds. Baitsakhan pulls hard, and the horse rears and comes down on Terbish’s shoulders and neck. The man is crushed into the earth as the horse turns a tight circle first one way then the next, prancing over Terbish’s body, crushing his bones, taking his fading life.

  When Baitsakhan returns to the crater, Pry Bar is sitting on the ground, his legs in front of him, his nose bloody, his hands tied behind him. The rod is under his elbows, and Jalair is pulling up on it.

  Baitsakhan jumps from his horse.

  The man spits. “What did we ever do to—”

  Baitsakhan puts his fingers to his lips. “Shh.” He holds out his other hand, and Bat appears as if from nowhere and places a long and gleaming blade in it. “Don’t talk.”

  “What are you doing?” the man pleads.

  “Playing,” Baitsakhan says.

  “What? Why?” Pry Bar asks.

  Baitsakhan puts the knife against the man’s neck and slowly slices the man’s throat open.

  “This is Endgame,” Baitsakhan says. “There is no why.”

  SARAH ALOPAY

  Alopay Residence, 55 Jefferson Street, Omaha, Nebraska, United States

  Sarah doesn’t want her brother to be dead or her best friend to be armless in the ICU or her school to be gone. She doesn’t want most of her classmates to have been obliterated. She doesn’t want any part of it. She doesn’t want to be the Player.

  Too bad for her.

  She sits at the linoleum-topped table, her fingers laced. Simon and Olowa stand behind her. Christopher returned to the crash site to help pull survivors out of the wreckage and do whatever else he can. He’s kind that way. Kind and brave and strong.

  Christopher does not know what Sarah is or what she’s going to have to do. He does not know that the meteor fell from the sky in order to deliver her a message. In a way, all those deaths were caused by Sarah’s presence. And there will be more death if Sarah doesn’t Play. Everyone within hundreds, thousands of miles will die if she doesn’t win.

  The Alopays are still in shock. They look like actors from a war movie. Sarah hasn’t spoken. Simon has been crying quietly. Olowa has been steeling herself against what has passed and what is yet to come.

  The multicolored meteorite rests on an ancient ceramic platter on the table. Olowa has told them that it’s called pallasite—a kind of nickel-iron rock laced with a colorful substance called olivine. In spite of its small size, it weighs 9.91 kg. Cut into the pallasite is a perfect triangular hole.

  The stone that flew from Sarah’s neck and saved them rests on the table. It is jet-black, darker than the insides of Sarah’s eyes.

  Next to the stone is a rough-edged sheet of yellow paper, and a glass beaker of clear liquid.

  Sarah picks up the stone. They have talked about this moment for years. Though Sarah never believed it would come, and doesn’t think her parents did either, now it’s here. They have to follow each step, in proper order. When they were young, before they were eligible, she and Tate would playact and pretend they were doing it. They were children. Like fools, they thought Endgame would be cool.

  It isn’t.

  Sarah turns the stone in her hand. It is a tetrahedron. Its four triangular sides are exactly the same dimensions as the hole in the chunk of meteorite. The small pyramidal rock is familiar yet foreign. There is no record of its exact age, but the Alopays know that it is at least 30,000 years old. It comes from an era in human history when humans were not believed to have possessed the tools capable of crafting a thing so fine. It comes from a time when humans were not believed to have even been aware of the perfect proportions of golden triangles. But here it is. Passed down again and again and again. An artifact of history before history. A history that is not thought to have existed.

  “Here goes,” Sarah says.

  This is it.

  The future is unwritten.

  What will be will be.

  She holds the stone over the meteorite; it jumps from her hand and snaps into place, melding with the pallasite. The hairline gap between the objects disappears. For a moment nothing happens. A rock is a rock is a rock is a rock. But as they watch, the stone she wore around her neck turns to dust, as do 3.126 inches of the meteorite around it. The dust mixes, mingles, dances, settles after 11 seconds.

  She learned the process when she was five years old. Each step must be done in the proper order.

  She pours the dust onto the parchment.

  “Ahama muhu lopeke tepe,” her father chants through silent tears. He would rather be grieving for his lost son, but knows there is no time for that.

  She spreads the dust.

  “Ahama muhu gobekli mu,” her mother chants more resolutely.

  She pours the liquid on it.

  “Ahaman jeje. Ahaman kerma,” her parents chant together.

  The dust steams; the air fills with an acrid smell; the edges of the paper curl, turning the flat sheet into a bowl.

  “Ahaman jeje. Ahaman kerma,” her parents chant together.

  She picks it up, mixes it.

  The liquid evaporates and the dust turns red.

  And it appears.

  The message.

  The Calling.

  Sarah stares at the markings. Even though she was not supposed to be the Player, she has always had an affinity for codes and languages. She has been studying them in all their forms since she was four years old.

  They start shifting into place.

  She sees the numbers that are telling her where and how she will start to win.

  Sarah thinks about her brother, how Tate couldn’t accept that he had been disqualified from Endgame for losing an eye. How he’d been drifting through his years of ineligibility, how he’d grieved at his inability to continue and the passing of the responsibility to Sarah. How excited he’d looked that afternoon when he’d recovered the meteorite for her. How she can’t actually believe that she’s going to be the one Playing Endgame, and not him. How she is going to have to Play alone, without Tate’s support.

  She thinks about Reena and her missing arm, the confusion on her face. She thinks about Christopher pulling bodies from under rubble.

  She thinks about her speech. I choose to be the person that I want to be. Those words seem so hollow now that Sarah has no choice.

  She will make sure that her family and friends did not die in vain.

  All 12 Players of all 12 lines receive the message.

  All 12 Players of all 12 lines will attend the Calling.

  The 12 Players of the 12 lines are:

  Marcus Loxias Megalos,viii Minoan,ix 16.24 years

  Chiyoko Takeda,x Mu,xi 17.89 years

  Sarah Alopay,xii Cahokian,xiii 17.98 years

  Alice Ulapala,xiv Koori,xv 18.34 years

  Aisling Kopp,xvi La Tène,xvii 19.94 years

  Baitsakhan,xviii Donghu,xix 13.02 years

  Jago Tlaloc,xx Olmec,xxi 19.14 years

  An Liu,xxii Shang,xxiii 17.46 years

  Shari Chopra,xxiv Harrapan,xxv 17.82 years

  Kala Mozami,xxvi Sumerian,xxvii 16.50 years

  Maccabee Adlai,xxviii Nabataean,xxix 16.42 years

  Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt,xxx Aksumite,xxxi 18.69 years

  MACCABEE ADLAI

  Aeroflot Flight 3501, Seat 4B

  Depart: Warsaw

  Arrive: Moscow

  Maccabee Adlai, the Player of the 8th line, settles into the 1st-class cabin on Aeroflot 3501 from Warsaw to Moscow, which will take 93 minutes. In Moscow he will make a connection for a flight to Beijing, which lasts 433 minutes. He is 16 years old but has the build of a decathlete 10 years his senior. He is six feet five inches tall, and he weighs 240 pounds. He has the facial stubble
as well, one of those kids who never really looked like a kid. Even when he was seven, he was much taller and stronger than his peers.

  He likes being taller and stronger than his peers.

  It gives him advantages.

  He removes the jacket of a three-button custom silk suit. He settles into his aisle seat. His French-cuffed shirt is powder blue and white gingham. His rose-patterned tie is held in place with a silver clip. His cuff links are made of fossilized mammoth ivory. They are shaped like Tibetan skull beads and have ruby chips for eyes. On his left pinkie is a large brass ring inset with a drab tan stone carved in the shape of a flower.

  Maccabee smells like lavender and honey. His black hair is wavy and full and slicked back. His forehead is broad and his skull is apparent, as if his skin is almost too thin. His temples are a little sunken and his cheekbones high. His eyes are blue. His nose is narrow but large with a hook in the bridge.

  It has been broken five times.

  He likes fighting. So what? When you’re Maccabee’s size, fights have a tendency to find you. People want to see how they measure up. In Maccabee’s case, they always come up short.

  His only bag—a leather monogrammed shoulder satchel—is in the overhead compartment. He expects other Players to be burdened with packs and suitcases and all kinds of expectations. Maccabee doesn’t like to be burdened. He prefers to be nimble, fast, to be able to move and strike at will. Plus, the world has not ended yet. Until it does, money will suffice.

  Lots of money.

  He fastens his seat belt and turns on a smartphone and listens to a recorded message. He has listened to the message dozens of times:

  NASA/ESA/ROSCOSMOS Joint Press Release, 15 June:

  At 22:03 GMT on 11 June a large and previously undetected Near Earth Asteroid (NEA), since designated CK46B, passed within 500,000 miles of Earth. Accompanying this parent NEA were several hundred children of varying magnitudes. At least 100 of these objects are confirmed to have been drawn into Earth’s gravitational field. Like most “shooting stars,” the majority of these burned up in the atmosphere, leaving nothing but visual evidence of their descent and demise. However, as worldwide press coverage has well documented, at least 12 bolides did survive the rigors of atmospheric entry.