Endgame: The Calling (38 page)

Earth Key.

The first object of Endgame.

Here.

On Earth.

Placed eons ago by one like kepler 22b. Placed at one of their ancient meeting points. A place of significance.

Earth Key.

What does a key do?

It unlocks.

Opens.

Starts.

Nothing decides everything.

The future is unwritten.

A circle.

A circle of stone.

A disk like the one the Olmec carried from the Calling.

Zero.

A simple circle.

Outside, nothing.

Inside, nothing.

Hilal places his hands on his knees. The world turns around him. He feels centered, at peace. His heart brims with hope. He hears the atoms of the stone hard beneath his knees urging themselves together. Feels the breath of the cosmos. Tastes the ash of the end. Senses the neutrinos and the dark matter binding, rides the continuum. Hears the low, barely perceptible hiss of the Uroboros, the consuming hum of creation.

He hears those like kepler 22b discussing, watching, judging this game of games.

They made us human.

Looked into the eyes of an animal and gave us perception.

Plucked us from Eden and taught us love and lust and hate and trust and betrayal. All of it. Showed us how to manipulate and form. How to bow down, and pray, and plead, and listen.

They made us.

Everything and nothing.

The first move is essential.

A circle.

A stone circle.

Too many on Earth to choose from.

They made us.

They control something. Not everything. Not nothing.

Hilal’s eyes shoot open.

The first move is essential.

The future is unwritten.

The Event is coming.

It is part of Endgame.

The reason for it, the beginning, middle, and end.

Hilal sees, smiles, stands.

Hilal knows.

Hilal understands.

Bardi Turkish Tour Bus, Rooftop, on the D400 3.1349 km from K
z
ltepe, Turkey

Chiyoko lies flat on top of the bus and waits for it to stop. When it does, she grabs the side and slips to the ground. She lies on her chest on the shoulder of the road and waits. She can hear the bus driver shouting.

She sees Kala’s and the American’s feet as they scramble off the bus and flag a car. A sympathetic driver slows for them. Seconds later, the driver is on his back in the dirt.

“Get in!” Kala shouts at Christopher.

The American does as he’s told. The man whose car is getting jacked stands up and yells as Kala puts the car in gear and tears off. Other people start to get off the bus too. They want to see everything so they can tell their friends later. Film it, tweet it, post it, share it.

Chiyoko cannot let them get away, but she will not risk stealing a car like the brash Sumerian. She stands and eases into the crowd around the door of the bus and makes her way back inside. No one pays her any mind, even with the red wig and the sunglasses. No one knows she played a part in the wild brawl. As she moves through the throng she pulls another straw from her small bag and places it on her tongue. When she sees the boy, his continued spasms drawing a small crowd, she exhales, and the next dart—the antidote—sails through the air, breezing by heads and shoulders. The dart looks like a small bug—no one notices. It hits the boy’s neck, and in a minute or two he’ll be fine.

Chiyoko sits in a nearby seat and waits for things to die down. After 10 minutes and much discussion the bus closes its door and the driver shakes his head and they take off down the road. No one wants to talk to the police, especially the men bloodied by Kala and the American. Not in this part of the country. There is partying to do. And dancing. And playing.

Chiyoko turns her music back on. She bounces her head.

She wants to keep Playing too.

Turkey-Iraq Border, Covert Peshmerga Checkpoint 4

Renzo drives Sarah and Jago through a secret one-lane earthen tunnel big enough for a truck convoy. It’s controlled by Kurdish fighters who don’t care for official borders. They reach a checkpoint at the end manned by a half dozen men in black fatigues carrying M4s, Kalashnikovs, and Colt service pistols. Renzo stops the car and gets out to speak with the man in charge. Jago sits in the front passenger seat. He has not spoken since Sarah called the Sumerian, since they learned that she is holding Christopher for ransom.

Sarah leans forward and puts her hand on Jago’s shoulder. He doesn’t move. Christopher is not with them yet, but his presence clouds the car, poisons the air around them. Sarah and Jago spent last night in each other’s arms, kissing, whispering, laughing, touching, playing. Two teenagers in the first stage, the delirious first stage, of falling in love. And for the first time since the meteors struck, for the first time since Endgame began, they forgot how they met, why they met, forgot the game they were Playing, which would determine the future of humanity, forgot everything and just loved each other.

Sarah heard the messages from Christopher and Kala this morning, and immediately called Kala back. Jago heard the call and knew what was going on. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t say anything. Now, in the car, Sarah reaches for his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

Jago casually pulls his hand away. “Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know what happened. I guess he tried to find me, and somehow found her.”

Jago snorts and stares straight ahead.

“We have to help him and send him home,” Sarah continues. “You know we’re not going to let her get the disk. It’ll be fine.”

He shakes his head. “Easier just not to go at all, hm?”

“I have to go. You know I do,” Sarah insists. “I would do the same for you.”

“You wouldn’t have to.”

“Jago,” Sarah says, and a chill goes through him at the way she says his name. “I’m asking for your help. Please.”

Jago looks over his shoulder at her. “You should let him die. There, I’ve helped.”

“No.”

“This boy is going to get himself killed. Must have some serious death wish to try following you around. Best to just let the fool have his way.”

“I love him, Jago. Don’t you understand that?”

Jago smiles in a way that Sarah has never seen before. It’s the alpha male smile that he would flash on the streets of Juliaca. It’s an angry, painful-looking thing. It causes her to sit back.

“If you love him, then why were you with me last night?” he asks.

“Because I never thought I’d see him again,” she explains. “Because I thought that part of my life was over.”

“It is. Let him die.”

“I’m going to get him, and then send him home. If you don’t want to come, fine. Go your own way. But if you do, you’re one of them, the heartless killers, and I swear on everything and everyone I love that the next time I see you, I will end your life, and I won’t think twice while I do it.”

Jago laughs.

“You think it’s funny? You won’t be laughing as you take your last breath.”

He turns toward her.

“I was laughing because I want to hate you, but when you act all hard, and I know you can actually back it up, it makes me like you more.”

She smiles. “You just don’t want me gunning for you.”

Jago knows his pride should be hurt, like it was beneath the Terracotta Army when Sarah clearly outran him. She’s challenging him, pushing him. He shouldn’t be taking that from another Player. But, much to his chagrin, what Jago feels most is jealousy. Jealousy that this dumb non-Player has gotten Sarah’s attention.

“You don’t have to swear on your loved ones or whatever,” Jago says coolly. “I’m not heartless. I understand love is a strange, strange thing.”

“So you’ll go with me.”

“I’m going for the Sumerian,” he says. “She called me out before. I should’ve dealt with her then.”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says, knowing that’s not the real reason Jago is going but glad that he is.

“When it’s done, you
will
send this silly boy home, right? And we get back to what we’re doing, yes?”

“Yes. It’s what’s best for everyone.”

Renzo approaches the car with a smile on his face. Five steel columns descend into the ground at the end of the tunnel, and two men work to raise a mesh wall of camouflage so that the car can pass into the Kurdish region of Turkey.

“You’re clear. Come, get out.” Renzo is smiling and holding a brown glass bottle and three small tea glasses. He passes out the glasses and pours a cloudy liquid into each one. He raises his glass high. They follow his lead.

“To friendship and death. To life and oblivion. To Endgame.”

“To Endgame,” Sarah and Jago say. They tap glasses and drink. The liquid tastes like spiked licorice. Sarah scowls, asks, “Ugh, what is this?”

“Arak. It is good, no?”

“No,” Sarah says, “it’s awful.”

Jago laughs. “I like it.”

Renzo nods at Jago and pours himself another, drinks, and throws his glass to the ground. Sarah and Jago do the same. Each glass explodes. Renzo hugs them, kisses them on their cheeks, grabs their shoulders, hugs them again. Before letting Sarah go he says, “Best of luck at the end of ends, but not too much luck.”