Endgame: The Calling (50 page)

Christopher thinks back to what Kala told him about the destruction of civilization, how each line is fighting for its survival. “I know more than you think, Sarah.”

Sarah curls her lip, figuring this for more bluster. “You don’t know shit. Not about me, not about Jago, not about Chiyoko or Kala or Maccabee or Baitsakhan. You don’t know shit about Endgame, and that will never change.”

“I saw Kala killed,” he says, holding Sarah’s gaze. “And before that, on the life raft, Kala killed a child and her mother for no reason. You think I don’t get what you guys are all about?”

“I’m sorry you had to experience that,” Sarah says, touching his arm. “But it’s nothing compared to what’s going to happen. It’s called the Event—”

Christopher interrupts. “Yeah, everyone on Earth dies except for the winner and the people in his or her line, right?”

“Yes,” Sarah says, taken aback. “You know about that?”

“Kala liked to talk,” Christopher replies. “I don’t actually believe it, and neither should you, Sarah. Aliens with gold-powered ships or whatever? Come on. Nothing has the power to just wipe out a planet.”

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” Sarah says matter-of-factly but with a hint of sadness. She wishes she didn’t believe too. “I want you to go, Christopher, because I love you. I want you to go because I don’t want to watch you die. I want you to go so I can have a better chance of winning. And of saving you. Of saving you and Mom and Dad and everyone we know back home. But having you here, it’s not making it any easier.”

“Assuming I even believe all this crap about the Event—why the hell would I just go home and wait around while you fight for the fate of everyone we know?” Christopher shakes his head, bewildered. “If it’s like you say it is, we should call the army or something.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“How it works sucks, then.”

Sarah can’t argue with that. For a while they don’t speak. The distinctive sound of a European police siren wails from some nearby street, bouncing off the stone and concrete of the old Italian city. A boat in the harbor sounds its low horn. A dog barks. Someone passes, saying
“Ciao, ciao, ciao,”
into his mobile.

“You have to go. Please.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not going to happen. If you don’t want me looking for you all the time, you have two options: kill me or let me come with you. I pledge myself to you, Sarah. You got that? I pledge myself to you.”

“Endgame is not for you.”

“Bullshit. If what you say is true, then it is
precisely
for me, for people like me. So I’m staying. I can help you.”

“No. You can’t. Not like this.”

“I can.”

“Jago won’t like it.”

“Screw Jago. He’s a punk.”

“He’s not.”

A long pause. Christopher eyes her. She quickly changes the subject. “If you do stay, what are we going to do with that leg?”

He smiles. “Get me a cortisone shot. I’ve played entire football games with worse.”

She rises. She is tired and feels defeated. There’s just no convincing him.

“All right. We can do that. But right now, I have to go to bed.”

She starts past him but he grabs her arm. If it were anyone else she would react, dislocate his shoulder, gouge his eyes out, break his leg. But it isn’t anyone else. She spins and he pulls her close and gives her a huge, heartfelt kiss. And in spite of everything, she kisses back.

Christopher says, “I’m telling you, Alopay. That
can
be us.”

She shakes her head, whispers, “No, Christopher. It can’t.”

32.398516, 93.622742
^lxx

Aksumite Communications Outpost, Kingdom of Aksum, Ethiopia

Next to the ancient church carved from stone, among the tall cedars, is an unremarkable wood-and-mud hut with a thatched roof. It has no windows and only one low door, which Hilal must duck to walk through. But inside the hut, the walls are metal. The floor is concrete. The furniture is spare and utilitarian. A string of generators, buried deep underground so no one can hear, provide electricity. A series of high-speed satellite uplinks is hidden in some of the taller cedar trees, disguised as branches. The data they send and receive is encrypted. Every bit. Every byte.

Hilal tries to locate as many Players as he can electronically. Only once he has done this will he enter the field and contact the remaining Players. One by one. He hopes there is enough time.

He knows it is a small hope.

For the others must be closing in on Earth Key.

They must.

Still, he has located active Gmail accounts for Shari Chopra, Aisling Kopp, Sarah Alopay, and Maccabee Adlai. He has hacked each and will open a new draft and write his message into each account. He won’t risk sending it. He would like to avoid the prying eyes of the online police in all their forms. He prays that these four check their email, that they will see.

He prays.

He writes his message. He selects the text. Copies it. Opens a browser window. Accesses Aisling’s drafts pane. Opens a new document. And is about to hit paste when the power—the quintuple-backed-up generated power—goes out.

The inside of the hut is dark. Dark as pitch.

Hilal raises his head from the dead computer screen.

The message wasn’t transmitted. He is still the only one who knows.

How could they lose power?

He listens.

And he knows.

The keplers did it.

They
want
the game.

They want to see what happens.

The keplers want it.

As he stares at the black screen, a knock at the little door.

A hole rends the magnetic field. It acts like a funnel. All the radiation of the sun from that moment of the flare.

All.
^lxxi

It snuffs out all power, spins all electrons, jiggles all quarks.

It affects everything. Yet it is invisible.

As if it is nothing.

Grand Hotel Duchi d’Aosta, Room 100, Trieste, Italy

Sarah says good night to Christopher, wanders through the hotel. Goes back outside. Sits at the bar and orders a glass of white wine and doesn’t drink more than a sip. The kiss has left her wanting and confused.

She leaves the barmaid a €100 note and walks through the halls. Everything—the wood, the wallpaper, the carpet, the paint, the metal, the memories—is as good as gone. The Event, the aftermath, the death, the madness, will see to that.

When her legs stop moving, she is staring at a door that is not hers. Room 21. She can sense him behind that door. She knows he isn’t asleep. She thinks about that time in Iraq, on the couch in Renzo’s garage. In the airplane lavatory. She rests her forehead against Jago’s door. She almost knocks, but stops herself. She will stay with Jago. Play with him. Maybe fall in love with him, maybe die with him. But she will be with him until the end. They still have time.

She thinks about the girl from Omaha. The one everyone loved and admired. The girl who could’ve had a normal life. Who wanted a normal life—but in reality, never had one. Not even close. With a sigh, Sarah turns away and walks down the hall. She stops in front of a different door. She is going to leave the boy behind this door. She may never see him again when she says good-bye. And though she loves him, and has loved him, she knows their time is coming to an end. With Christopher, she doesn’t have any more time. This is it.

She knocks.

She hears movement on the other side, and it takes a moment or two for the door to swing open.

“What’s up?” Christopher asks, surprised. “You want to argue more?”

“No.” She steps into the room and presses a finger over his lips and she pushes the door shut with her foot and she says, “Just shut up.”

Grand Hotel Duchi d’Aosta, Room 101, Trieste, Italy

An runs.

Through a field of flowers.

They’re thick around his ankles.

He falls.

Gets up.

Runs.

Falls. Gets up. Runs.

The soles of his bare feet are brown and slick.

The sky is heavy with billowing clouds.

Raining down numbers and letters and signs.

They strike his head and neck and arms.

A large stone
O
slams into his back.

He falls.

Doesn’t get up.

Rolls over.

Dies.

Chiyoko’s eyes snap open at 2:12 a.m.

She inhales a stab of air.

She lies on top of the sheet, naked, alone; her fists are balled, her toes curled. The windows are open. The cool sea air drifts across her skin. The small hairs on her stomach rise. She gets goose bumps on her arms. She brings her hands up, reaching for the ceiling. She relaxes.

The dream of An fades.

She sits up, swings her legs over the bed. It’s just like the night the meteor fell over Naha. Just like the night the first round of death came to Endgame.

Time to Play.

She stands. Goes to the chair and pulls on her black jumpsuit. Everything is in its place, as always. She tucks her hair into her collar and pulls on the hood. She draws the cowl over her face. Only her eyes. Her dark, empty eyes.

She slips into her soft shoes, puts the Browning that Jago gave her in her belt, double-checks the safety. She walks to the door, places her ear on the wood. Waits. Turns the handle. Pushes the door open. Steps out.

She pads silently down the hall, hears the night clerk’s television behind the check-in counter, hears the hum of the HVAC, hears the springs of a bed rhythmically bouncing somewhere close by.

No one can hear her.

She crouches in front of Room 21, slides a lock pick from her sleeve, opens the door, steps in, takes her time letting the door close slowly without a sound. She turns around. Light from the street sifts through a curtain. Jago sleeps alone, shirtless, on his stomach. Chiyoko is surprised. She thought the Olmec would have won out over the dopey American boy. But no matter. It’s better that he is alone. She sees the knapsack on a chair by the window.

Careless.

She picks it up, opens it, reaches into it; the disk is cool beneath her fingers. She pulls on the straps of the pack to tighten them, kneels and goes through the pockets of Jago’s pants, finds and removes the keys to the 307.

Very careless.

She walks to the bed, stands over Jago. She takes out her wakizashi. Its steel is 1,089 years old. There is no telling how many people it has slain. She runs her fingers over the sheath, thinks how easy it would be to kill him now. He will be coming after her, Chiyoko knows. He will be angry, righteous, vengeful. But he was honest with her, and so was Sarah, and she will not kill a Player while he sleeps.

She turns and without a sound jumps through the window. Her left hand grabs a drainpipe and she slides down to the street, black as night, quieter than death.

She leaves the wakizashi behind, penance for breaking her word. On it is a small square of paper.

She walks to the 307, opens the door, sits, starts the engine, drives away.