by James Frey
Shari is careful that none of these images remind her of Little Alice. No peacock feathers, no pakoras, no toys, no numbers scrawled in crayon by a child’s hand. Of course Little Alice is there in Shari’s memory. She always is. But right now, in order to keep up her subterfuge, Shari has shifted Little Alice to the wings of her consciousness. Because if she brought her to center stage now it would be too painful and dangerous.
She counts.
984.
985.
987.
No. I skipped one.
986.
She is still groggy.
She hears the voices of others talking. She hears Aisling Kopp and Jago Tlaloc and Sarah Alopay. She remembers each of their voices from the Calling. She remembers their accents. She remembers the sharp and tinny edge of Jago’s voice, the throaty innocence of Sarah’s, the sanguine twang of Aisling’s.
Aisling Kopp. The Celt. The Player who killed the Harappan.
The Player who Shari will kill someday in turn. Hopefully sooner than later.
My enemies.
987.
988.
989.
My enemies are so close.
There are other voices she doesn’t recognize. Two men. Middle-aged. And a third man behind her in the van who doesn’t speak, but whose breath is plain and audible. He has a rattle deep in his throat.
Perhaps he sleeps. Perhaps he’s angry. Perhaps he too is a prisoner.
The vehicle comes to a stop. Everyone but the silent man gets out. The air wafting into the van is hot and humid. They’re not in the mountains anymore. The voices talk outside. “This is the place?” “Where is she?” “Are you sure your friend will help us?” “Will she be able to stop Endgame?”
Yes, yes, yes, yes, one of the unknown men answers.
They move out of earshot.
Shari considers opening her eyes now, springing to action, getting revenge.
But she stays. She is bound and she can’t trust her body yet, its responsiveness, its strength. She doesn’t know where she is or why these three Players are together and not trying to kill one another. Have they called a truce? Have they come to an understanding, like she and Alice Ulapala did? Are they working together? She doesn’t know.
She stays. She needs to be sure that if revenge is the tonic she seeks, she will get it.
The others move back into earshot and then climb into the van and restart the engine. None talk. Shari feels the tension between them.
Did one mention trying to stop Endgame?
Yes. One did.
Is that possible?
She wants to serve her revenge, but she also wants to sate her curiosity over what these people are up to.
She stays.
She stays.
Most of all she wants to live, and acting now would not guarantee that.
She has to live if there is any chance that Little Alice is safe.
The van moves forward. Makes a tight turn, rides over a bump in the pavement, and feels as though it moves inside. The ground pitches downward five or six degrees. They drive for several minutes, making twisting turns like one would in a multistory garage. Then the ground levels and they stop.
She counts.
1,009.
1,010.
1,011.
Doors open. People get out. “Don’t forget the Harappan,” one of the men says. Jago Tlaloc grunts as he works Shari out of her seat and heaves her over his shoulder. A shot of pain in her side. She wants to call out but she doesn’t.
She welcomes the pain.
It means she is alive.
That her senses are returning.
By the sound she can tell that they move into a hard-walled room. The smell of food, spicy and oily and salty and peppery and doughy and fresh. Her stomach turns. She hopes it won’t call out and grumble.
She counts.
She concentrates on severing the connection between her gut and her woken brain.
She counts.
Jago places her on a chair. She keeps her body limp. He props her up. The zip ties on her wrists, which are not terribly tight, dig at her flesh. Her legs are not bound.
If it comes to it, she can run.
She counts.
Some eat. The three Players sound unsure of why they’re here. They talk in short bursts, their tension palpable. They’re waiting for someone. Someone Shari has never heard of.
Someone named Stella Vyctory.
She counts.
1,050, made of white feathers.
1,051, made of water droplets suspended in space.
Please live, Shari thinks. Let my child live.
1,052, made of blood and bones.
AISLING KOPP, SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, SHARI CHOPRA, HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, STELLA VYCTORY, POP KOPP, GREG JORDAN, GRIFFIN MARS
Bunker beneath Classic Kameo Hotel and Serviced Apartments, Ayutthaya, Thailand
They are assembled in a brightly lit conference room 103 feet underground. Its northern and southern walls are made of concrete, the eastern and western ones of thick structural glass, each with a high-tech sliding door set in it. At the moment, both of these doors are closed.
Beyond the westernmost glass door is a large garage containing a late model Mercedes sedan and a Sprinter Van that they drove here in from the airstrip northeast of town. The van was courtesy of Stella Vyctory, and it’s full of weapons and supplies and a cooler of ice-cold Cokes, and they are thankful for all of it. Especially the Cokes.
Behind the vehicles is a steep driveway that leads to the surface. The only other obvious way in or out of the bunker is a stairway behind a metal door just outside the easternmost glass partition. This stairway, Jordan says, is the one that Stella will use to join them from the hotel above.
She is almost here.
As they wait they sit around a large teak table set with food, though only Jordan and Marrs bother to eat. The others are clearly anxious. Jago has ejected the magazine from a new Glock 20 and plays with the slide. Sarah and Aisling, who also have new pistols from the van, are motionless. Aisling watches Shari. Shari, who everyone assumes is unconscious, keeps her eyes shut and tries to keep her mind calm.
And then the doorway swings open and Stella appears. She is Caucasian, tall, dark-haired, muscular, confident, late 20s or early 30s, and she strides into the conference room accompanied by a dark-skinned man whose face has recently been hideously burned, his hands clasped easily at his waist. He wears loose cotton clothing and carries a heavy rucksack by the shoulder straps at his side. Stella is dressed in black jeans and a gray V-neck T-shirt and dark running shoes. She has no jewelry and no visible weapons. The man with her also does not appear to be armed.
Jordan rises to greet Stella, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her into a hearty hug. “It’s good to see you again,” he says. “I’m sorry we parted ways for a while.”
She shrugs it off. “It’s good to see you too, Greg.” Then she gently pushes him aside and says to the room, “I am so glad to see you. I’ve been waiting my entire life to be in a room full of Endgame Players.”
The relief and joy and gratitude in her voice are palpable and a little infectious.
A good first impression, Sarah thinks.
Aisling and Jago think the same.
Shari thinks, Where am I? Who is this new stranger? Is she an enemy too?
Stella addresses each of them individually. “Aisling . . . Sarah . . . Jago. Thank you for agreeing to trust Greg. I know it hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry you couldn’t kill the little girl that is Sky Key, as terrible as that sounds. I’m sorry you couldn’t stop the Nabataean from taking her.”
Little Alice is alive!
Little Alice is alive!
Little Alice is alive!
Shari wants to scream for joy and relief, but her training controls her body, not permitting her to move even a centimeter. Her chest doesn’t heave, her fingers don’t twitch, her eyelids don’t flutter.
Little Alice
is alive, Shari thinks.
And then something terrible strikes her: Could it be that my captors and these strangers are also my . . . my friends? That like me, they know that Endgame is amoral? That it is wrong? Her stomach turns at this thought and it takes all her concentration not to vomit all over her lap.
“And you must be Mr. Kopp,” Stella says, interrupting Shari’s train of thought.
Pop, at the far end of the table and half turned away from Stella, grunts disapprovingly.
So that’s the silent one, Shari thinks. A line member of Aisling’s. He must have been with her in the mountains.
He also will have to die for what happened to my line.
And then Stella says, “And Shari Chopra is here too. I’m happy to see her.”
How does she know all of our names?
Stella continues, “But does she need to be kept unconsc—”
She’s cut off as Aisling and Sarah blurt in perfect unison, “Who the hell are you?”
The two Players look at each other and almost smile.
Shari thinks, Yes. Who?
Stella makes a small curtsy. “Well, as Greg has told you, my name is Stella Vyctory. And I am very interested in Endgame.”
“Why?” Jago demands. “You’re no Player.”
“What line are you with?” Aisling asks.
And Sarah says, “How do you know anything about Endgame?”
Stella pats the air in front of her. “I promise, I’ll tell you everything the more we get to know one another. But we’re short on time, so for now I’ll say that my adoptive father taught me about Endgame. He wasn’t with any of the lines, but—”
“Your father?” Sarah says.
“Why isn’t he here?” Jago asks.
And Aisling says, “I trust Jordan, but how do I know I can trust you?”
“Please,” Stella pleads. “You can trust me. You must if we are going to stop Endgame. I can tell you how.”
“The prophecies say nothing about non-Players intervening,” Sarah says. “Least of all to stop Endgame.”
Stella shakes her head. “No. They don’t. But the prophesies are false. And the rules—”
“The rules of the game have changed,” Jago says gravely.
“That’s right, Jago Tlaloc,” Stella says.
“Or rather, there are no rules,” Aisling reminds them. “That’s what kepler 22b said. If we really are going to stop Endgame, then I guess we’re finally going to have to embrace that, completely.”
“I understand your concern, Sarah,” Stella says. “If I were in any of your shoes I wouldn’t trust me at first either. And after what I tell you about my father I would probably trust me even less.”
Jago leans forward. “And that is?”
“My father knew a lot about the Makers. More than any of the lines do, more than all of the lines put together. He knew a lot because, well, because he was one of Them.”
What? Shari thinks.
Looks of doubt dominate the Players’ faces.
“It’s true,” Jordan says quietly.
Pop grunts again, barely masking his dislike for Jordan or Stella or anything either has to say.
Finally Sarah says, “So—you’re a Maker too?”
And in case the answer is yes, Jago quietly slides the magazine back into his Glock and gets ready to fire.
Stella stays cool. She keeps her eyes locked on Sarah. “Absolutely not. All I want is to stop Endgame.”
The man with the terrible burns steps forward. “I beg you, my fellow Players. Listen. Ms. Vyctory is sincere. I trust her completely. I implore you to do the same.”
Sarah claps her hand over her mouth.
Jago blurts, “Aksumite?”
“What . . . what happened?” Aisling asks.
Shari yearns to open her eyes, to see what is so disturbing about Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt. She wants to see the Player who revealed the location and identity of her daughter, the man who enabled the decimation of her line.
She wants to see him and she wants to kill him.
Hilal says, “I was attacked by the Donghu and the Nabataean after the Calling. Sadly, both survived.”
“One’s dead now,” Sarah whispers. “Baitsakhan. Jago and I saw his body.”
Goose bumps rise on Shari’s nape and along her forearms at the mention of the Donghu’s name. She hopes no one notices.
“I am glad he is dead, at least,” Hilal says. “But I am also ashamed to say that I am sorry the girl lived.”
“I couldn’t do it,” Sarah says after a moment. “She was so young. So vulnerable. It was too much.”
“I couldn’t either,” Jago says quietly.
Hilal sighs. “I do not think I could have done it myself.”
They are friends, Shari realizes. They are my enemies and my friends. Hilal and Aisling too. Or if not friends they are at least human beings, like I am. Like we are. Once more she pushes back the urge to retch.
Hilal looks to Stella. “May I?”
Stella nods, holding up a hand for Hilal to speak.
“If you remember, in China I asked us to pause before we began to Play. I asked that we pool our knowledge of Endgame and work together. I ask you now to do the same. Everything I have learned since Endgame began has led me to believe that it is an evil endeavor, one that we and our forebears have been tricked into preparing for and prosecuting. This is our chance to make amends, not only for ourselves, but for our lines. I do not know the motivations of the kepler and nor does Ms. Vyctory, but if we can stop Endgame from progressing any further, then that is a good thing for the world. I for one wish never to see the Maker again, unless I am looking down on his death mask.” He clears his throat. “Barring a miracle, Abaddon will arrive on the other side of the globe in a matter of hours. It will kill untold millions and will make the world a hard place in which to live for a very long time. Be that as it may, we can live in it—together. But first we must put aside the prejudices, hate, and myopia of our separate heritages so that we can fight back—together.”
There is a long pause. The lights flicker. Stella frowns briefly before deciding it’s nothing.
“What do you want us to do?” Jago finally asks.
Stella places her hands firmly on the table and leans forward. “We must find Sun Key before either the Nabataean or the Shang does. As Greg has told you, I know that Sun Key is hidden at one of twelve ancient monuments scattered across the world. As you know, two have already been destroyed.”
“You know who’s doing this?” Aisling asks.
Stella nods. “They are a brotherhood as old as the lines—maybe older. And its members work against us. Luckily, this brotherhood also works against the Makers, otherwise we’d be totally fucked. Unluckily, in addition to destroying your lines’ most sacred monuments, they’re also trying to destroy me. And if you accept my help, they will also try to destroy you.”
“But who are they?” Jago asks.
“That’s simple. They’re people loyal to—”
A snappy hiss followed by a small biting sound and Stella Vyctory gasps. She brings her hands from the table to her throat. Hilal reaches over and grabs her arm to steady her, but her breath cuts short and the veins in her temple pop and the capillaries around her nose darken and her eyes bulge and water. She doesn’t look afraid or angry so much as disappointed and sad.
“Pop!” Aisling yells, spinning to her grandfather.
Stella’s knees buckle. Hilal catches her, supporting her full weight, while everyone else stands at once. Pop spits a metal tube from his mouth and it clinks onto the table. He’s standing too, one hand a fist and the other reaching for the pistol resting on his hip. “Blasphemy!” he hisses as he backpedals, Aisling quickly advancing on him. She has her sheathed Falcata in her hands and she whips it at her grandfather, simultaneously knocking his hand from his gun and the gun off his belt. The lights flicker again, plunging the room into complete darkness for nearly a second, which feels like an eternity. When t
hey come back on, Sarah and Jago look all around, trying to make sense of what’s happened, their shoulders touching as they guard each other before helping anyone else. Hilal stands over Stella, cradling her head. Jordan is on her other side, gripping her arm and cursing. Stella sputters and begins to turn pale green. Shari risks half opening an eye to witness all of this. No one notices. Marrs has his pistol up and he’s pointing it at Pop.
He shoots as Pop surges toward Aisling. The shot misses. “Traitor!” Pop yells, raising his arms and crashing forward to head-butt Aisling.
She’s shocked by this attack but her training kicks in and she moves by rote, grabbing one of Pop’s wrists and pirouetting around him and twisting his arm painfully. His knees crumple. With his free hand he reaches for a long knife on his thigh. Aisling mashes her foot on top of his hand, and it crunches to the floor. The knife comes free, Aisling flicks it with her foot, and it slides across the room.
Aisling doesn’t notice that it stops at Shari Chopra’s feet.
“Christ, Pop!” Aisling exclaims.
Marrs takes careful aim now. He has a bead on Pop, except that the line of fire goes right through Aisling’s thigh. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the trigger.
But he does not see Jordan sliding around the table, his eyes wild. He tackles Marrs full-tilt and the second shot rings out as the slug bounces off the floor next to Aisling’s leg and embeds in the underside of the table.
Jordan says, “Damn it, Marrs! Not like this!”
Marrs protests but Jordan is much stronger and better trained for this sort of thing, and he brings his friend and colleague under control.
At the same time Aisling says, “Someone help me!”
Jordan eyes a bag on the table. “There’s a tranq in there, Jago. Brought it for Shari. Use it!”
Jago glances at Sarah. “Go on,” she whispers. Jago jumps onto the table and runs over it, grabbing the bag as he moves.
He reaches Aisling in seconds. She’s grinding her knee into her grandfather’s back, his vertebrae cracking audibly. Aisling looks up to call for help again, but Jago’s right there, a syringe aimed for exposed flesh. He puts it in Pop’s neck and presses the plunger and Pop Kopp relaxes.
