Endgame: The Calling

by James Frey

  “Not now, Christopher. I’m exhausted.”

  “It’s important.”

  “A bath, food, sleep—they’re more important.”

  “Fine.” Christopher shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it,” he says over his shoulder.

  They pile into the elevator. Christopher and Jago stand on opposite sides, Sarah in the middle, Chiyoko close to the doors. None of them speak. Their rooms are on the top floor. Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding. The doors open. They exit the elevator and go their separate ways.

  Christopher orders a burger.

  Chiyoko sits on the floor and meditates.

  Sarah draws a bath.

  Jago knocks on her door.

  She opens it.

  “Can I come in?”

  She moves aside.

  Jago takes five steps into the room and turns. “We should leave them. Tonight.”

  The door closes and Sarah leans against it. She’s spent. “I know.”

  “So let’s.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jago frowns. “Why not?”

  Pause. “Chiyoko should see the disk before we cut her loose. We made a deal with her. And she might be able to tell us something useful.”

  “She can’t tell us anything.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “She could help us find Earth Key.”

  Jago waves this away. “Fine. We’ll grab her on the way out. We should leave him. It’s not right to bring him along.”

  “Don’t be so jealous.”

  “I’m not.”

  She shoots him a look.

  “Okay, maybe a little,” he admits.

  She sighs.

  “You’re going to have to leave him eventually. Unless you plan to spend the rest of Endgame rescuing him.”

  “He can hold his own,” Sarah replies, but the words are hollow.

  “Because he was captain of the football team?” Jago chuckles. “He’ll die if he stays. You know I’m right.”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Let’s leave. Consider it an act of mercy.”

  Sarah slides down the door to the floor. Jago steps forward, crouches in front of her, and runs his hand down her jawline. She nuzzles his fingers. “If I thought he would go home, we would leave, but he won’t. He’ll follow me again. He’ll continue to put himself and me—and you, as long as we’re Playing together—in danger. No, for now he has to stay.”

  Jago lets his hand drop away. He doesn’t know how else to reason with her. He doesn’t know why he even cares about what happens to her or Christopher. He shouldn’t. Sarah looks up at him, as if she’s reading his mind. “You won’t leave me, will you, Feo?”

  He thinks for a moment, remembers Renzo’s warning not to fall in love. But he also knows he’s going to Play Endgame the way he decides to Play it. And though Christopher is a nuisance, Sarah has proved her worth, and saved him more than once. With Christopher, what will be will be. With her, what will be will be, whatever happens between them. And he wants to make it happen between them.

  Finally, he says, “No. I won’t. On my line and honor, I swear it. Not until . . .”

  “Right. Not until the end,” she says sadly.

  “Not until the end.”

  A moment. “Thank you, Jago. Now that this has started, I know I can’t do it alone. It’s too . . . bleak.”

  “Yes,” Jago says quietly. “It’s not as glorious as we were raised to believe, is it?”

  Sarah shakes her head. They’re quiet for a while, both of them thinking about the future, and each other.

  “If we get Earth Key, maybe we’ll be able to figure out when and where the Event will strike. More than winning, I want to save the people I love. I haven’t spoken to my parents since I left home. It would hurt too much if I did.” Sarah pauses, looking at Jago. “This is why I chose you, Jago. You’re honest. You like me. Maybe you love me. I . . . I love life, Feo, not this. Not Endgame. I hate it. Christopher, in spite of the fact that he’s annoying as hell right now, is my friend. And I want my family, my friends, to live.” Pause. “I want yours to live also. What can I say? I’m weak that way.”

  Very slowly Jago shakes his head. “No, Sarah, that doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. That is why I chose you.”

  She holds out her hand. He takes it. “What are we going to do?”

  “Win,” Jago says. “Somehow we are going to win . . . together.”

  MACCABEE ADLAI, BAITSAKHAN

  Bole International Airport Runways, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

  Maccabee and Baitsakhan descend the narrow gangplank of the jet they chartered from Ankara to Addis Ababa. The sun is bright. The air is hotter than hot, thick with the odors of gasoline and tar. Baitsakhan’s neck is wrapped in a black-and-white kaffiyeh that he bought in Turkey. He wears blue jeans. A new white T-shirt. Dusty riding boots. Maccabee has on one of his expensive linen suits. No tie. White Adidas shell-tops. He smells like a nightclubber. They load into a waiting Land Rover with their small but heavy bags. Maccabee drives. Baitsakhan sharpens his knife in the passenger seat.

  “This is how you do it,” Maccabee says, glancing over at his young partner.

  “Do what?”

  “How you Play,” Maccabee answers, wishing he could see the two of them through a camera. “In fucking style.”

  Baitsakhan scrunches up his eyebrows, shrugs. “I prefer knives.”

  Maccabee shakes his head. “There’s no talking to you.”

  SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, CHIYOKO TAKEDA, CHRISTOPHER VANDERKAMP

  Piccolo Gato Ristorante, Trieste, Italy

  Before leaving Istanbul, Chiyoko shows Sarah and Jago the image of the grid of letters and numbers and signs from the golden chamber near Gobekli Tepe. Christopher says he saw it too. “It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

  They have no idea what, if anything, the grid means.

  But they know it means something.

  They check out of their hotel. They drive west and leave Turkey. Cruise through Bulgaria. Pass through Serbia. Visit Croatia. Glide through Slovenia. They barely speak. Christopher is stewing in the backseat, and Sarah pretends not to notice. Jago and Chiyoko take turns driving while Sarah puzzles and puzzles and puzzles some more over the grid and her clue, wondering if they fit together in some way. She makes little progress. Breakthroughs are not forthcoming. She finds it all very frustrating.

  After many hours and miles of silence they reach Italy, stop for the night in Trieste. 1600 km. 994.19 miles. Including breaks, 20 hours, 43 minutes, 29 seconds.

  They check into another hotel. See the Adriatic. Go to dinner. A heaping family-style bowl of creamy, spicy penne rigate at a plastic table on the sidewalk. They watch Italians stroll. This wouldn’t be so bad if it were just a vacation, they think. All except Chiyoko. She does not have any illusions about normal life; she simply bides her time.

  Jago has a glass of red wine. Chiyoko drinks tea. Christopher stretches out his leg and has a beer. He has another. And another. Sarah abstains, sticking with acqua con gas and slivers of lemon. The awkward silence continues. Sarah works all through dinner, scribbling into a notebook. Christopher cranes his neck, hoping he can help. Jago stares icily at him. Chiyoko doesn’t mind the drama, actually. She’s glad her three companions are at odds. It keeps them quiet.

  Over dessert Jago asks, “Do you want to see it, Chiyoko?”

  Chiyoko claps once. She gingerly sips her tea and tries not to look too excited. Jago picks up his backpack. He unzips it. He reaches in and removes the stone disk.

  Sarah looks up from her work.

  At last, Chiyoko shows some measure of wonder as she cradles the disk in her hands. She runs her fingers over the grooves. Stares at its markings.

  Home, she thinks to herself. Soon you are going home.

  She lets it rest in her lap, bows her head to Jago in thanks. “You’re welcome,” he says, glancing at Sarah. “We did have
a deal, right?”

  Sarah knows what that look means: they’ve satisfied their debt to Chiyoko. Now, they can move on. Leave her and Christopher behind. Sarah pretends not to notice, looks away.

  “Cool rock,” Christopher says, who sounds as though he’s had too much to drink.

  Chiyoko takes out her phone and taps a quick message. She hands the phone to Jago. Thank you for showing me this. I would like some time to study it.

  Jago frowns at the message, hands the phone to Sarah. After she’s read it, Sarah and Jago lock eyes. It’s like they’re communicating without speaking, Christopher thinks. Just like Sarah and I used to back at home. Christopher is suddenly jealous of this Player, his stupid accent, his ugly scar, his ridiculous teeth. He grabs the phone out of Sarah’s hand.

  “Study what?” he asks. “It’s a rock.”

  They ignore him. Sarah looks at Chiyoko. “Do you think it will lead us to Earth Key?”

  Chiyoko nods vehemently.

  “We’ve got a lead on a guy who specializes in these disks. It’s why we’re in Italy,” Jago says. “We’ll be visiting him tomorrow; you can study it on the way.”

  Chiyoko cocks her head, asking, Who? Jago smirks at her.

  “Can’t tell you that, obviously. You’ll see soon enough.”

  Chiyoko nods as if she understands. She already knows the identity of their so-called expert, overheard during their conversation with the little troll man at the Terracotta Army. Musterion Tsoukalos.

  Yes, someone needs to show him this, Chiyoko thinks.

  Jago takes the disk back from Chiyoko, her hands lingering on it for perhaps a moment too long. He eases it back into his bag. “Maybe you know something this specialist doesn’t,” Jago says to her. “For now, we can continue to help each other, yes?”

  Chiyoko takes her phone back from Christopher. She taps out another message. Whatever information I find, I will share with you.

  Jago nods. “Good.”

  “Thank you, Chiyoko,” Sarah says, smiling.

  Sarah returns to the puzzle, flips through her notes, thinks. Christopher puts his arm across the back of Sarah’s chair. She doesn’t seem to notice, or chooses to ignore it, focusing on her work. However, Jago notices. He stands up abruptly.

  “Long day. I’m turning in.”

  He turns and walks toward the hotel, the bag bouncing innocuously on his back.

  After a few more minutes, Chiyoko puts down a wad of euros and stands. She claps once. Sarah looks up from her work, rubs her temples. “You too?”

  Chiyoko nods, eyes Sarah’s notepad.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I should give it a rest.” Sarah looks to Christopher. “What do you say?”

  “Sure, I’ll go back. But I want to talk.”

  Chiyoko is not interested in these . . . feelings. She claps once, spins on her heel, and goes. Sarah closes the pad and lets her hand rest on it. “Fine, Christopher. Let’s talk. But let’s do it here.”

  He rubs his face, which is still bruised from where Maccabee struck him. “Sarah, I’m not going home.”

  “I know.”

  “I wo—wait. What?”

  “I know you’re not going home. You’re too stubborn to do anything that makes sense.”

  Christopher is dumbstruck. He expected more of an argument. A young couple walks by on the sidewalk. They are very attractive. Her high heels click the pavement. His loose shirt flaps open at the chest. Christopher can’t help but watch them. “God, that could have been us,” he says longingly.

  Sarah shakes her head. “Maybe once, but not anymore. Our time—our chance—it’s gone.” Her voice shakes slightly as she says the words.

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “It does. You may think you understand what’s happening, but you don’t. Yes, you’ve heard us talk, but you don’t really know what’s coming. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

  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, 93.622742lxx

  HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT

  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.