by James Frey
He never got up the nerve to say it to her face. And by the time he was five years old, the urge had passed for good.
“Don’t tell me you’re having an attack of conscience,” she says, as if it’s a dirty word. “Surely I’ve raised you better than that.”
“Of course you did,” he says quickly.
“No, don’t lie to me.” Her thick eyebrows are knit together, her voice tight with fury. “I know when you’re lying—I’m your mother.”
She wields the fact like a weapon.
“You care about this woman, what happens to her,” Ekaterina sneers. “You should be concerned with what’s best for the line, what’s best for us, and instead you’re focused on this stranger? As if she matters, as if her existence has any purpose beyond what she can do for us? That’s not my son. That’s not the son I’ve sacrificed everything for. Have I bet on the wrong horse, Maccabee? Tell me now, before it’s too late.”
Maccabee has never seen her like this.
She’s trained him to master all fear, but he’s never been so afraid. He’s spent his life trying not to cross her, but even when he has, she’s not been like this.
This is different, he realizes, because this isn’t a question of disobedience. This is a question of character.
Is he the son she raised him to be? Or is he a stranger?
He’s afraid of her, but even more, he’s afraid of himself. Of how easy it would be to set fire to his life.
Just imagine if he said: Yes, I care about this woman. No, I am not the son you raised. Yes, you’ve gambled and lost. Imagine if she walked out of this crap restaurant and took everything with her. The money. The power. His destiny. She could pull the right strings, have him removed from his position, choose a new Player to mold and control.
She could leave him behind and never look back. He knows that.
If he says those words.
If he says anything but what she wants to hear, he will never see her again.
He takes the second thumb drive out of his pocket and lays it on the filthy table between them. “I was only asking for details because I wanted to know whether this would come in handy,” he says.
“And what is that supposed to be?”
“A little extra insurance.” He raises an eyebrow, and she smiles.
“Ah.” She knows exactly what that means, and it pleases her. She makes both thumb drives disappear, then bows her head briefly. “I’m sorry for misjudging you, my Player. You’ve done well.”
She’s never apologized before.
She’s never told him that he did well.
Maccabee tries not to think about the images on the drive, about what the camera captured in its unblinking eye, about what it will do to Serena, knowing the record exists, watching him on-screen betraying her with every touch. She is, after all, a stranger. Just a tool to be used to get what he wants, or what Ekaterina wants.
He focuses on Ekaterina instead, and how she is pleased.
She drops a handful of Swiss francs on the table and rises to her feet.
“Wait!” he says. “Where are you going?”
“Now that our business is concluded, I have a flight to catch.”
“Oh.”
“What is it, my Player?” she asks. “Is there something more I should know?”
He shakes his head, but she returns to her seat, peering intently at him.
She is his mother; she knows.
“It’s only . . .” He hates the way his voice sounds, tentative and needy. “I suppose I thought that since you’ve come all the way here, we could spend some time together.”
Ekaterina laughs in his face.
“What did you think this was?” she says. “Have you been impersonating one of these children long enough that you’ve forgotten who you are? Who I am? Did you expect me to bow and scrape for your teachers and curtsy for the dean? Meet your friends? Come poke around your dorm room and check your underwear drawer for condoms? Have a nice mother-son brunch where we chat about your homework?” She doesn’t sound angry this time, simply amused. “What do you want, Maccabee?”
What does he want?
Not that, he assures himself.
But also . . . not this.
She checks the time. “Well?” she says, impatiently. “I have a flight to catch, so if you have something to say to me, you might want to spit it out.”
“I understand you have important business elsewhere,” Maccabee says, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “And surely I can be of more help to you on that than I can be here. Take me with you!”
“Out of the question.”
“But—”
“I know this isn’t where you want to be, my Player, but you must trust me that right now: this is the best use of your time.”
“I’m the Player, Ekaterina. The entire fate of the Nabataean line rests on my shoulders, and you’ve got me twiddling my thumbs and pretending I don’t know how to do basic multivariable calculus? How can that be the best use of my time?”
“Either you trust me or you don’t,” she says. “And if it’s the latter, better I know now.”
“Of course I trust you, Ekaterina.”
“Then trust that, for the moment, you’re more useful to me here.”
“Is that all I am to you? Useful?” The words are out before he realizes it, and then there’s no taking it back.
He steels himself, but this time there’s no anger.
Instead Ekaterina flags the waitress.
Maccabee can’t help noticing that the woman only has seven teeth. It doesn’t stop her from grinning widely when Ekaterina orders a slice of kremnita, with two forks.
“You expect me to eat the food here?” Maccabee says, once the waitress has set down the vanilla and custard cream cake between them and scuttled back into the shadows. He notes a spot of brown crud on the fork’s tines.
“Don’t be so finicky,” Ekaterina says cheerfully, digging in.
“I’m not finicky,” he says hotly. He’s eaten monkey brains, fish intestines, cockroaches dug from the ground and roasted live on a gasoline fire, when circumstances demanded; his training dictates that he do whatever necessary to survive. He can endure filth—that doesn’t mean he prefers to.
But now, circumstances demand. He picks up the dirty fork and breaks off a piece of kremnita. It’s too runny and overwhelmingly sweet—but also somehow delicious. He takes another. “I thought you had important business,” he tells Ekaterina.
“This is important,” she says. “You asked me if that’s all you are to me. Useful. You need an answer.”
He spreads his arms wide: Go ahead.
He doesn’t expect her to make a stirring speech of maternal love. It’s not her way. But in the long pause that follows, he assumes she’s mustering her strength to offer an uncharacteristic show of affection. She will tell him that of course he’s not just a tool for her to use, a weapon for her to wield. Of course she values his usefulness to the cause, but he’s so much more than that.
He’s her son.
She loves him.
She loves him above and beyond whether he succeeds as the Player, whether he lives up to her expectations, whether he disobeys her or rebels against his future or simply makes one choice, any choice, of his own.
She loves him no matter what.
She’s his mother, so he knows this must be true—but maybe now, after 16 years of waiting, he’s finally going to hear her say it.
“I’m your mother, and I love you,” Ekaterina says, “because you are useful to me. I made you—I created you from nothing, gave you life, and I did so to fulfill a specific purpose. I wanted a son who would be a Player. Who would bring glory and victory to our line. I love you for fulfilling that purpose. I love you for proving your worth to me, for carrying out my demands, for continuing to be good enough. But make no mistake, Maccabee, my love is conditional. That detestable greeting-card nonsense, unconditional motherly love? The ridiculous idea that simply because
I carried you in my womb I should be bound to you for life, regardless of your performance? You and I are beyond that, my Player. That kind of foolishness is for the weak; that kind of love is only pity. I raised you to be strong, didn’t I?”
Maccabee can only nod.
“I thought so,” she says. “This is the greatest gift I can give you. A love that must be earned, always earned. A love contingent on your choices, your behavior. Serve my purposes, serve our line, and you will earn my love. Prove yourself useless, and you will prove yourself unworthy of a mother like me. Are you inclined to test me on that?”
He shakes his head.
“I thought not,” she says. “I thought all this had been made clear long ago, but I can see the risk I’ve taken, leaving you here among the plebeians. Beware camouflage, Maccabee—never let yourself believe you are that which you pretend to be. Are we clear?”
Maccabee is clearer than he’s ever been.
He has been weak; he has been confused. He has done exactly as she has said, and forgotten who he really is—who both of them really are. No more. He will allow himself no more weakness, no more pathetic indulgence of this sorry sitcom fantasy of family. He will be the Player his line needs him to be, ruthless and useful and alone.
He will be his mother’s son.
She’s given him no other choice.
“We are, Ekaterina.”
She takes the final bite of kremnita and brushes the crumbs off her lap, then stands up again.
“I’ll contact you when I need you,” she says.
“Understood,” he says, and finally, it is. When she turns to leave, he lets her go.
One week later, Serena Porter is arrested on charges of embezzlement and racketeering. Federal agents storm into her office and handcuff her, load her into a police van like a common criminal. Maccabee watches it on the news, trying to get a glimpse of her expression, but the cameras never get close enough.
She claims to be innocent.
She claims that she’s been set up.
She claims that someone must have gained access to her secret passwords, to her files, must have inserted the incriminating data.
But she has no evidence to offer in her defense. In return for a light prison sentence, she makes a deal. Her husband files for divorce, spirits himself and several million of her dollars away to an island with no extradition treaty with the United States.
The rest of the money is confiscated by the government; Jason is withdrawn from school, and Maccabee finally has the room to himself.
Intellex files for bankruptcy and is acquired by its main competitor, which itself is owned by a shadowy holding company whose primary interests are controlled by the Nabataean line.
The job is done.
Maccabee forces himself not to wonder whether it will be hard for Serena, living behind bars in a prison-issued jumpsuit. Whether she’ll enjoy the irony of it, that her schedule will finally be free enough to spend time with her children, to be the mother she always wanted to be—but she can only see them during visitation hours. He certainly won’t think about the way Jason, the ’roided-up hockey-playing thug, burst into tears when news broke of his mother’s arrest, and had to be sedated until he could be escorted off campus and flown home—coach.
None of this is relevant.
He’s helped his line; he’s helped his mother. He’s been of use.
After the arrest, he receives an anonymous text, terse but clear: You’ve done well.
He knows who it’s from—and he knows that this is her way of saying she loves him. That he’s made her proud.
That’s what matters. All that matters.
It’s nice, having his own room. Especially now that he’s acquired a new girl—it proves much easier to persuade her to do as he wants when there’s no mouth-breathing meathead spying on them from the opposite bed. The girl is the daughter of a German diplomat, or at least that’s what she believes—Maccabee is certain her father is a spy, and knows that could come in handy. She’s a mousy girl, quiet and nervous and thrown off balance by the thought that someone like him might want someone like her. He’s certain she’ll be useful to him, and—despite her oversized nose and undersized cleavage—he’ll keep her around as long as she is. He’ll cultivate her, and offer her up to his mother as a gift, next time Ekaterina comes to town.
Charming her will be worth it.
Enduring more days and weeks in this exile will be worth it.
Anything will be worth it, if it means proving himself to his mother. He understands now that he can never stop proving himself, can never get lazy, can never relax, even for a second. That’s the gift she’s given him. That’s how she’s made him strong. She has ensured his endless dedication to serve his line, to prove his worth. To make her proud.
DONGHU
BAITSAKHAN
The polecat’s neck fits perfectly in Baitsakhan’s small palm. He squeezes—gently, he reminds himself. It wouldn’t do to sever the spine. Not yet, at least. Baitsakhan presses the polecat against the hard-packed dirt, trying his best to hold the squealing animal still. It squeaks and wriggles, but that is no matter. It cannot escape. It’s utterly under his control. When Baitsakhan unsheathes his dagger and, with a sure hand, brings the blade down on its tail, it can do nothing but scream.
Its screams sound almost human.
Baitsakhan finds this interesting.
Also interesting is the blood spilling from the creature, splashes of bright red against the dirt. The raw meat of the wound. The rotten-sweet smell of it. The way the keening noise trails off, turns to a whimper, then a hiss, then nothing. Baitsakhan notes all of this carefully.
Most of all, he notes the look in the polecat’s eyes. Pain and terror. The same look the dog gave him when he sliced out its entrails. The same look his baby sister gave him when he pressed the sizzling cattle brand to her foot, hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream. It should, perhaps, amaze him that pain is such a powerful leveler, that it brings all creatures, large or small, to the same hellish ground.
But nothing amazes Baitsakhan.
Amazement is a word without meaning for him, like sorrow, like love.
But pain? That, he understands.
Also joy.
Joy is what happens when he causes pain in others.
The polecat’s blood flows and flows. If he liked, Baitsakhan could release his grip: the creature is too weak to escape. Or he could tighten his grip, a few millimeters, choke the air from its lungs, crush its throat, put the animal out of its misery. It would be merciful.
But it would not be joyful.
Time passes, and the cat does not die. Good. The wound is not fatal—there will be time for more. Baitsakhan carves the polecat carefully, like his father dissects their evening meal. First the paws, then the flank, then, when he finally grows bored, the tender belly, letting the steaming innards drop to the ground with a soft plop. He waits impatiently for the creature to expire. Then he reaches into his box for another one.
It is his sixth birthday.
This is his present to himself.
One year later, the Trials begin.
The Donghu hold the Trials every six years. Those Donghu children, ages six to eight—fortunate enough to be born within the right window, to have the chance to serve their people—are brought to an arena 100 kilometers south of Ulaanbaatar. This is the law of the land, and those who violate it are severely punished. For three days and three nights, more than 100 children pit their skill and strength against each other, whether they want to or not.
Baitsakhan has been waiting for his Trials ever since he was a toddler. The children are pitted against one another in feats of strength and ferocity. They are not trained in fighting methods—or, at least, they’re not meant to be. They are simply handed weapons and set against each other in the arena. No rules, no adult interference, only the young Donghu, pitted against each other like animals, fist to fist, knife to knife, two by two, until one emerges suprem
e.
That one, strongest and fittest, will be the Player of his generation.
Baitsakhan has spent his entire life in the barren depths of the steppe, and he has wide eyes for this strange village, with its closed-in spaces, its sturdy buildings digging their roots into the earth, its people. Such teeming hordes of people, the smell of them, the filth of them, clogging the air. Baitsakhan feels wrong here, like a caged animal. His people are migrants, following their crops and their herd, carrying their possessions and even their homes with them when they go, reveling in harsh nature and open sky.
His home is nowhere and everywhere. His home is gray sky and ashen ground, warrens of dark caves eating through cliffs, dunes of sand undulating into infinity.
Such emptiness offers so many wonderful places to hide. Baitsakhan can be alone whenever he needs, to do whatever he needs, safe from prying eyes.
He thanks the gods, now, that he doesn’t live in a place like this, where foul people would always be watching.
Baitsakhan stands under the dome of the arena with his twin cousins, Bat and Bold, and their younger brother Esan, listening to them chatter about who will triumph. Within a week, one of the children here will prove himself superior to the rest, and this child will be named the next Player of the Donghu people. Baitsakhan does not join his cousins in their idle speculation; he has no need.
He gets what he wants; he takes what he wants. That has always been his way.
And he wants this.
To be the Player is to be powerful, and the more powerful he is, the more of the Earth’s sorry creatures he will be able to hurt.
The Player who Plays Endgame will ensure the death of billions. It is a beautiful gift that the gods have promised their chosen people. That someday they will have the chance to purge the Earth of its inferior bloodlines. For millennia, the Donghu have waited patiently for the sacred promise to be met, for the time to come. For millennia, generations of Donghu Players have waited at the ready, preparing for genocide. Perhaps each of them thought: I am worthy; the gift will come to me. But none could have been as worthy as Baitsakhan.