Endgame: The Calling (32 page)

Tim stares at them both, surprised by Alice’s widening smile. “I don’t get it.”

She looks at Dave. “Christ, mate! Those’re elements!”

“Yep.”

Alice slaps the bar top so hard everything on and under it jumps. Dave jumps too. Tim shakes his head, chuckling quietly.

Alice stands. “Money’s yours, mate. If it comes to it, you can count on any Koori to get your back.”

A shiny animated graphic on the news tells of a plane crash in the Indian Ocean.

Dave stares at the money. Before he can say thanks, Alice is gone. He turns back to Tim.

“You never told me what a Koori was.”

“New rulers of the world,” answers Tim, cleaning a glass with a worn towel. “New rulers of the world.”

Indian Ocean, ~120 km off the Coast of Oman

The plane plows into the water at 175 mph. Kala fights to hold on to her sense of calm, but a plane crash is quite an event. A rather terrible event. The worst part is not the violence of the impact. It’s not the doors of the bathroom flying open and dumping supplies everywhere. It’s not the edge of the sink pushing into her rib cage, bruising her, feeling like the pressure might chop her in half. It’s not the smell of jet fuel, seawater, smoke, burning hair, or scorched rubber. It’s not the uncertainty of what will happen next.

The worst part is the sounds.

First the groans of the plane as it descends. The instructions from the pilot, completely irrelevant now, a barely audible panicked droning. Then the loud repeated smack of the fuselage skimming across the water. The metallic shriek of the flaps as they are torn from the wings and bounce off the outside of the plane. The whirring of the engines as they take on water and fall apart. The first explosion, when it comes, is almost a relief. The screams, everyone screaming. Wailing, moaning, a baby crying. Another explosion, closer to the nose. The electrical system snapping as the lights fail.

And for a moment, a brief moment, silence.

The deepest, darkest, most profound silence she has ever heard.

A red emergency light comes on. Kala checks herself. Her right wrist is still cuffed. She still holds the gun. She’s bruised and battered, and blood coats the right side of her head. She may have a broken rib but can deal with that. Overall she’s fine. Her heart is working; her breath is even. The adrenaline is pumping and her energy is high.

She tries the door but it is jammed. She kicks it hard, and it flies halfway open, blocked by the body of Officer Singh. She steps out of the bathroom and over the dead cop. She removes the clip of ammo from his holster, finds the key to the cuffs in his jacket pocket. She undoes the remaining cuff and drops them to the floor, slides the clip into her back pocket, looks around. Most people are still in their seats, moaning and trying to recover. There’s a large hole in the starboard side of the plane. There is sunlight filtering through it, and through the windows, and through the smoke. Halfway down the center aisle there’s a woman on fire; two men are trying to put her out with blankets. A little closer, Kala sees the bulk of a cargo container, forced up through the floor and into the seats, which in turn were forced into the overhead compartments. Sparks fly from exposed electrical wiring. A leg dangles; its owner is crushed.

A person screams a few rows away. It’s hard to tell if the voice is male or female. Kala pushes into the aisle and sees a sheet of metal embedded in a seat back; it has decapitated the passenger next to the screamer. The person across the aisle begs frantically, “Where’s the head? Where’s the head?” but no one answers, and no one seems to know. After a moment someone tells this person to shut up, but he doesn’t.

There’s commotion at the front of the plane and a loud creaking sound. It’s at this moment that Kala realizes that the nose is taking on water—fast—and the fuselage is tilting to the fore. The wings, so long as they are intact, will help keep the plane afloat, but given enough time it will tilt more, sink; she knows she has to get out, now, now, now.

Someone is walking urgently toward her. It’s the Western boy. He’s frightened and rattled, but his body is whole and he knows that he has to get out too. Kala looks in the rear overhead next to her and finds the emergency kit and the transponder. Before she turns to the exit door the Western boy says, “You need your bag?”

Plane crashes are strange things,
she thinks.

He is looking right at her, stopped at the row where she was sitting.

“Yes!” she yells over the confusion.

He reaches into the compartment and grabs her bag, and only her bag.

This is not a coincidence. He’s been watching me.
She’ll have to figure out why later.

She turns to the galley. Two of the food carts have escaped their bays and are blocking the emergency exit. Trays, cups, and carafes are everywhere. Burst cans of Sprite and Coke hiss on the floor. A tray of small bottles of alcohol lies at her feet. She goes to the starboard door and pulls the big handles covered in warnings, pushes the door open; the raft inflates. Outside it’s bright and calm. The water is limitless.

We should call it Ocean, not Earth,
Kala thinks.

Water begins to wash over the threshold of the doorway, and she knows it won’t be long until the plane goes down.

“You ready?” the boy asks, his voice shaking.

She had already forgotten about him.

She turns to say that she is, but no words come out. The boy is strong, tall, athletic. His left arm is bleeding. A bruise is rising over his right eye.

“Yes,” Kala says.

She puts a leg in the raft and Kala hears another sound. A young girl begging her mother in Arabic not to let her die. The mother, sounding strong and sure, telling her it will be all right. As if he can understand, the Western boy holds up a finger and turns. The mother and daughter are standing in the back row. The boy wades through dark water that is steadily rising, now at his ankles. He goes to the mother and the daughter, and they appear untouched, as if graced by God. It is like the crash didn’t happen for them at all. The boy grabs the mother by the arm.

“Come!” he shouts in English. Kala knows that the only men to have ever touched the young mother are her husband and her father. Perhaps an older brother. It would be an abomination if this were happening anywhere else in the Middle East, under any other circumstances.

The boy says, “Now!” and pulls the woman and her child. Water is flowing in white swirls around their knees. The mother nods, and they wade to the door. Kala is already in the raft. The boy ushers the mother and child in, follows them.

“What about the others?” the girl asks in Arabic.

The boy cannot understand.

“There is no time,” Kala answers. She notices the mother looking at Kala in fear. Her hijab is perfect. Her eyes are like new copper coins.

Kala detaches the raft but cannot push off. The water is being sucked into the doorway so quickly now that it holds the thick yellow rubber against the metal of the plane. Just as the doorway is about to disappear underwater, a hand materializes, a voice screaming for help. But the person it belongs to cannot escape the pull of the water.

The door goes under. Kala pushes off. The raft drifts away from the plane, and the four of them watch in horror and shock as the plane sinks. The nose depresses and the tail rises. Some things escape the wreckage and pop to the surface. Seat cushions. Chunks of foam. Parts of a body. But no one living. For a minute or so, as the passengers drown, the plane floats just below the surface, the rudder and the rear stabilizers up in the air. A stream of bubbles appears as the last air pocket is breached, and the plane pitches underwater and disappears.

Just like that it is gone.

And everyone in it.

Never to be seen again.

“I have a transponder,” Kala says.

“And there’s a sat phone in here,” Christopher says, patting Kala’s bag.

How does he know that?
she wonders. She’ll have to ask when the time is right.

The girl starts crying, and her mother tries to soothe her. The sea is calm and there’s no breeze. The sun is setting. They are the only survivors.

Blessings for life,
Kala thinks.
And for death.

After a while the girl stops crying and they’re all quiet.

Alone on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

Renzo’s Garage, An Nabi Yunus, Mosul, Iraq

Sarah and Jago are greeted at the airport by a squat, jovial, 47-year-old man named Renzo, who arranged for them to bypass security. Unlike the new arrivals, who have already started sweating in Iraq’s profound heat, Renzo doesn’t seem bothered. He’s used to the weather here. Even though he’s a touch overweight, Sarah can still see—in the way he moves, how he sizes her up—that Renzo used to be a Player.

“Everything, all the time, everywhere . . .” Renzo says in English, staring at Jago.

“. . . So says, and so has been said, and so will be said again,” Jago finishes.

Renzo grins, satisfied, and claps Jago hard on the arm. “It’s been too long, Jago. Last time I saw you, you were still hiding behind your mother’s skirts.”

Jago shifts, uncomfortable, glancing at Sarah. “Yeah, Renzo. Long time.”

“Now you’re all grown up. Big man, big Player.” Renzo whistles, turning from Jago to Sarah. “And who is this?”

“My name is Sarah Alopay, the Cahokian of the 233rd. Jago and I are working together.”

“You are, eh?” Renzo asks with an air of disapproval.

“This is my Endgame, Renzo,” Jago says forcefully, his expression darkening.

“But you play for us. For the survival of our line. Not to impress some
gringa
.” He looks Sarah up and down. “At least she’s pretty.”

“Shut up, fat man, or I’ll show you
my
Endgame,” Sarah threatens.

Renzo chuckles. “Feisty, too. That’s good. Don’t worry, Sarah Alopay, I have no interest in dishonoring you. Players kill Players, that’s what our line says. Pudgy ex-Players, we just offer support when called on. Come along.” He walks away, leads them to a yellow pickup truck. In a couple of minutes they’re navigating the crowded streets of Mosul. Sarah sits in the backseat, Jago in the passenger seat next to Renzo. The streets are loud, and Renzo has his radio blaring. Jago leans in close to Renzo, not wanting Sarah to hear.

“Do not question me in front of her, understand?” Jago hisses.

Renzo flashes a jovial grin, but it quickly fades when he sees Jago’s expression. “I’m sorry, Jago. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Jago says, leaning back, satisfied. Renzo isn’t frightened of Jago so much as he’s frightened of Jago’s parents. It was a generous “scholarship” from the Tlaloc fund that put Renzo through engineering school, allowing him to set up shop here, just in time to become a fixer for the American military during the war and amass a small fortune. What the Tlalocs have given, they can take away. Even for an ex-Player. Renzo knows this.

Of course, since Endgame has begun, that doesn’t much matter anymore.

Sarah leans forward, shouting to be heard. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“I was telling Renzo we need new passports and visas,” Jago answers. “If someone’s tracking us, we should start fresh.”