Endgame Novella #7

by James Frey

  That option means killing me too.

  Still, my survival instincts kick into gear. As the grenade rolls to a stop, I swim as quickly as I can in the opposite direction, which means toward the elevator. As I near it, I see that the doors are open a crack. I don’t know how or why, as I know they were sealed the last time I was in here. Maybe the water has short-circuited something. I don’t really care, I’m just grateful for the possibility of escape. But is it enough to get through? Not with the air cylinder on my back.

  I take a final breath and abandon the Aqua-Lung. As I force the doors open enough to pull myself inside the elevator, the grenade explodes. Only moments later, the wave of pressure comes. Even inside the elevator, it’s enormous. The doors buckle. My whole body feels as if it’s being squeezed. The glass on my dive mask cracks. My lungs are gripped so tightly that I can’t breathe. I know I’m dying.

  And then I don’t.

  I’m still alive. But I can’t breathe. All the air has been sucked out of my lungs. So now I’m going to drown.

  The flashlight is still in my hand and still working. I look out and see the Aqua-Lung cylinder. The regulator has been ripped from it, and air is bubbling from the broken valve. I grab the tank and put my mouth in the stream of bubbles. I sip at them, getting enough air to take a breath. Then I survey the damage done to the chamber.

  One wall has been ripped open. The contents of the cabinets are strewn around the floor. It’s difficult to see clearly through the cracked mask, and I have no idea what anything is, or if any of it is related to the weapon. I shine the flashlight around, hoping something will point me in the right direction. Then I see a metal box. It’s dented and battered from the explosion, but still intact. I swim to it, take the key I took from Sauer’s pocket, and insert it. When I turn it, I feel a click. I quickly turn it back, locking the box again. I don’t know exactly what’s inside, but I don’t want to get water in there if I can help it. I have to assume that since Sauer was guarding the key to the box, whatever’s in it is what I’m after.

  Now I have to get out of the chamber. The only way out is the air shaft. But what’s waiting up there? I don’t know who Ariadne was facing, or if she survived. The fact that she dropped the grenade makes me think she might not have. If I go that way, I might be walking right into the hands of death.

  Then I remember the elevator. I swim back to it and look at the ceiling. There’s a hatch to access the machinery on top of the car. I turn the handle, and the cover flops down. The shaft above seems to be filled with water too. I push the box in my hands through the hole, take a last breath from the almost-empty cylinder, and pull myself up and through.

  Standing on top of the elevator car, I take the box and put it under my shirt, knotting the material to hold it in place. Even then, it’s incredibly awkward. Then I grip the steel cable that the car is attached to and start climbing, using the fins to help propel me upward. After a dozen pulls on the cable, my head breaks through the water. The rest of the shaft is dry. I rip the mask from my head and drop it, then lose the fins, as they’ll do me no good out of the water.

  Being able to breathe doesn’t make the climb much easier, though. I still have to pull my tired, freezing body up the entire length of the shaft. My muscles scream in agony as I go hand over hand, and I’m afraid to stop to rest in case I can’t get them going again. I feel as if I’m crawling toward a finish line that keeps moving away from me just when I think I’m about to cross it.

  Finally I’m at the top. The doors there are shut, but it’s easy enough to pry them open. I stumble into a closet, then into an office. It’s empty. So are the galleries and hallways outside. My feet leave footprints in the snow as I walk, then run, toward the steps that will take me to the basement. What I’m doing is stupid. I have no weapon. I’m freezing. I’m practically naked. But I have to know what happened to Ariadne.

  The steps to the basement are covered in blood. I slip in it as I go down them, my heart pounding harder and harder. There are bodies here, but most of them are from our previous fight. I see no new ones. I also don’t see Ariadne.

  I call her name. My voice echoes back at me. I call again, louder, not caring if anyone else hears me. I know I’m not thinking straight, not doing what a Player should do, but I don’t care.

  Then I hear someone behind me. I whirl around and see Ariadne coming down the steps. She’s holding her pistol in her hand. As she runs, she takes off her coat, which she puts around me.

  “I got it,” I say through shivering teeth as I show her the box. The key is still in the lock. I turn it, and this time when it clicks open, I lift the lid. Inside is a metal cylinder, along with a handful of pieces of machinery. Ariadne lifts the tube out and unscrews the end. She tips some rolled-up papers into her hand. Unrolling them, she shows me what is obviously a blueprint of some kind. I can’t read the writing on it, but the images are unmistakable. It’s a design for a weapon.

  “That’s it,” I say. “We did it.”

  I look at her face. She’s smiling. She rolls the plans back up and returns them to the cylinder, which she places back in the case. She runs her fingers over the pieces of machinery, then shuts the lid.

  “We did,” she says.

  There’s something about her voice that troubles me, a coldness that I haven’t heard since our first encounter.

  “Ariadne?” I say.

  She steps away from me and holds up her pistol. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Cassandra.”

  Excerpt from ENDGAME: THE COMPLETE TRAINING DIARIES

  FOLLOW THE PLAYERS FROM

  ENDGAME: THE COMPLETE TRAINING DIARIES—

  BEFORE THEY WERE CHOSEN.

  KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT:

  MINOAN

  MARCUS

  When Marcus was a little kid, they called him the Monkey.

  This was meant to be a compliment. Which is exactly how Marcus took it.

  At seven years old, he monkeyed his way 30 meters up a climbing wall without fear, the only kid to ring the bell at the top. Ever since then he’s made sure he always goes higher than the other kids, always gets to the top faster. Always waits at the summit with a cocky grin and a “What took you so long?”

  He can climb anything. Trees, mountains, active volcanoes, a 90-degree granite incline or the sheer wall of a Tokyo skyscraper. The Asterousia Mountains of Crete were his childhood playground. He’s scrambled up all Seven Summits—the highest mountain on each continent—including Antarctica’s Mount Vinson, which meant a hike across the South Pole. He’s illegally scaled Dubai’s 800-meter-high Burj Khalifa without rope or harness, then BASE jumped from its silver tip. He’s the youngest person ever to summit Everest (not that the world is allowed to know it).

  If only someone would get around to building a tall enough ladder, he’s pretty sure he could climb to the moon.

  Climbing is an integral part of his training. Every Minoan child hoping to be named his or her generation’s Player learns to scale a peak. They’ve all logged hours defying gravity; they’ve all broken through the clouds. But Marcus knows that for the others, climbing is just one more skill to master, one more challenge to stare down. No different from sharpshooting or deep-sea diving or explosives disposal. For Marcus, it’s more.

  For Marcus, climbing is everything.

  It’s a fusion of mind and matter, the perfect way to channel all that frenetic energy that has him bouncing off the walls most of the time. It takes absolute focus, brute force, and a fearless confidence that comes naturally to Marcus, who feels most alive at 1,000 meters, looking down.

  He loves it for all those reasons, sure—but mostly he loves it because he’s the best.

  And because being the best, by definition, means being better than Alexander.

  It was clear from day one that Alexander Nicolaides was the kid to beat. It took only one day more to figure out he was also the kid to hate.

  Marcus’s parents called it camp, when they dropped him
off that first day. But he was a smart kid, smart enough to wonder: What kind of parents dump their seven-year-old on Crete and head back to Istanbul without him? What kind of camp lets them do it?

  What kind of camp teaches that seven-year-old how to shoot?

  And how to arm live explosives?

  And how to read Chinese?

  It was the kind of camp where little kids were encouraged to play with matches.

  It was most definitely Marcus’s kind of place—and that was even before he found out the part about the alien invasion and how, if he played his cards right, he’d get to save the world.

  Best. Camp. Ever.

  Or it would have been, were it not for the impossible-to-ignore existence of Alexander Nicolaides. He was everything Marcus wasn’t. Marcus could never sit still, always acted without thinking; Alexander was calm and deliberate and even broke the camp’s meditation record, sitting silent and motionless and staring into a stupid candle for 28 hours straight. Marcus mastered languages and higher math with brute mental force, thudding his head against the logic problems until they broke; Alexander was fluent in Assyrian, Sumerian, ancient Greek, and, just for fun, medieval Icelandic, and he was capable of visualizing at least six dimensions. Marcus was better at climbing and shooting; Alexander had the edge in navigation and survival skills. They even looked like polar opposites: Alexander was a compact ball of tightly coiled energy, his wavy, white-blond hair nearly as pale as his skin, his eyes as blue as the Aegean Sea. Marcus was long-limbed and rangy, with close-cropped black hair. If they’d been ancient gods, Alexander would have had charge over the sky and the sea, all those peaceful stretches of cerulean and aquamarine. Marcus, with his dark green eyes and golden sheen, would have lorded it over the forests and the earth, all leaves and loam and living things. But the gods were long dead—or at least departed for the stars—and instead Marcus and Alexander jockeyed for rule over the same small domain. Marcus was the camp joker and prided himself on making even his sternest teachers laugh; Alexander was terse, serious, rarely speaking unless he had something important to say.

  Which was for the best, because his voice was so nails-on-chalkboard annoying that it made Marcus want to punch him in the mouth.

  It didn’t help that Alexander was a good candidate for Player and an even better suck-up. The other kids definitely preferred Marcus, but Marcus knew that Alexander had a slight edge with the counselors, and it was their opinion that counted. Every seven years, the counselors invited a new crop of kids to the camp, the best and brightest of the Minoan line. The counselors trained them, judged them, pushed them to their limits, pitted them against one another and themselves, and eventually named a single one as the best. The Player. Everyone else got sent back home to their mind-numbingly normal lives.

  Maybe that kind of boring life was okay for other kids.

  Other kids dreamed of being astronauts, race-car drivers, rock stars—not Marcus. Since the day he found out about Endgame, Marcus had only one dream: to win it.

  Nothing was going to get in his way.

  Especially not Alexander Nicolaides.

  Tucked away in a secluded valley on the western edge of Crete, the Minoan camp was well hidden from prying eyes. The Greek isles were crowded with architectural ruins, most of them littered with regulations, tourists, and discarded cigarette butts. Few knew of the ruins nestled at the heart of the Lefka Ori range, where 50 carefully chosen Minoan children lived among the remnants of a vanished civilization. Tilting pillars, crumbling walls, the fading remains of a holy fresco—everywhere Marcus looked, there was evidence of a nobler time gone by. This was no museum: it was a living bond between present and past. The kids were encouraged to press their palms to crumbling stone, to trace carvings of heroes and bulls, to dig for artifacts buried thousands of years before. This was the sacred ground of their ancestors, and as candidates to be the Minoans’ champion, they were entitled to claim it for their own.

  The camp imposed a rigorous training schedule on the children, but none of them complained. They’d been chosen because they were the kind of kids who thought training was fun. They were kids who wanted to win. None more than Marcus. And other than the thorn in his side named Alexander Nicolaides, Marcus had never been so happy in his life.

  He endured Alexander for two years, biding his time, waiting for the other boy to reveal his weakness or, better yet, to flame out. He waited for the opportunity to triumph over Alexander so definitively, so absolutely, that everyone would know, once and for all, that Marcus was the best. Marcus liked to imagine how that day would go, how the other kids would carry him around on their shoulders, cheering his name, while Alexander slunk away in humiliated defeat.

  He was nine years old when the moment finally arrived.

  A tournament, elimination style, with the champion claiming a large gold trophy, a month’s worth of extra dessert, and bonus bragging rights. The Theseus Cup was held every two years as a showcase for campers—and a chance for them to prove their worth. There were rumors that the first to win the Theseus Cup was a shoo-in to be chosen as the Player. No one knew whether or not this was the case—but Marcus didn’t intend to risk it. He intended to win.

  He swept his opening matches effortlessly, knocking one kid after another senseless, even the ones who were older and bigger. Bronze daggers, double axes, Turkish sabers—whatever the weapon, Marcus wielded it like a champion. Alexander, who’d started off in another bracket, cut a similar swath across the competition. This was as it should be, Marcus thought. It would be no fun to knock him out in an early round. The decisive blow needed to come when it counted, in the championship, with everyone watching.

  The two nine-year-old finalists stepped into the ring for a final bout. Personal, hand-to-hand combat. No weapons, no intermediaries. Just the two of them. Finally.

  They faced each other and bowed, as they’d been taught.

  Bowing before you fought, offering up that token of respect, that was a rule.

  After that, there were no rules.

  Marcus opened with a karate kick. Alexander blocked it with ease, and they pitted their black belts against each other for a few seconds before Alexander took him in a judo hold and flipped him to the ground. Marcus allowed it—only so he could sweep his leg across Alexander’s knees and drop him close enough for a choke hold. Alexander wriggled out and smashed a fist toward Marcus’s face. Marcus rolled away just in time, and the punch came down hard against the mat.

  The camp was on its feet, cheering, screaming Marcus’s and Alexander’s names—Marcus tried not to distract himself by trying to figure out whose cheering section was bigger. The fighters moved fluidly through techniques, meeting sanshou with savate, blocking a tae kwon do attack with an onslaught of aikido, their polished choreography disintegrating into the furious desperation of a street brawl. But even spitting and clawing like a pair of animals, they were perfectly matched.

  The fight dragged on and on. Dodging punches, blocking kicks, throwing each other to the mat again and again, they fought for one hour, then two. It felt like years. Sweat poured down Marcus’s back and blood down his face. He gasped and panted, sucking in air and trying not to double over from the pain. His legs were jelly, his arms lead weights. Alexander looked like he’d been flattened by a steamroller, with both eyes blackened and a wide gap where his front teeth used to be. The kids fell silent, waiting for the referee to step in before the two boys killed each other.

  But this was not that kind of camp.

  They fought on.

  They fought like they lived: Marcus creative and unpredictable, always in motion; Alexander cool, rational, every move a calculated decision.

  Which made it even more of a shock when Alexander broke. Unleashing a scream of pure rage, he reached over the ropes to grab the referee’s stool, and smashed it over Marcus’s head.

  Marcus didn’t see it coming.

  He only felt the impact.

  A thunderbolt of pain reverberating thro
ugh his bones.

  His body dropping to the ground, no longer under his control, his consciousness drifting away.

  The last thing he saw, before everything faded to black, was Alexander’s face, stunned by his own loss of control. Marcus smiled, then started to laugh. Even in defeat, he’d won—he’d finally made the uptight control freak completely lose it.

  The last thing he heard was Alexander laughing too.

  “You always tell that story wrong,” Marcus says now. “You leave out the part where I let you win.”

  Xander only laughs. At 14, he’s nearly twice the size he was at that first Theseus Cup, his shoulders broader, his voice several octaves deeper, his blond hair thicker and forested across his chest. But his laugh is still exactly the same as it was on the day of the fight.

  Marcus remembers, as he remembers every detail of that day.

  You never forget the moment you make your best friend.

  “Yeah, that was really generous of you, deciding to get a concussion and pass out,” Xander says. “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me two,” Marcus points out. “One for the concussion, one for the cheating.”

  They are hanging off a sheer rock face, 50 meters off the ground. They will race each other to the top of the cliff, 70 meters above, then rappel back down to the bottom, dropping toward the ground at a stomach-twisting speed.

  Marcus has heard that most kids his age fill up their empty hours playing video games. He thinks this is a little more fun.

  “I most certainly did not cheat,” Xander says, trying to muster some of his habitual dignity. Most people think that’s the real him: solemn, uptight, deliberate, slow to smile. Marcus knows better. Over the last five years, he’s come to know the real Xander, the one who laughs at his jokes and even, occasionally, makes a few of his own. (Though, of course, they’re never any good.) “Not technically, at least,” Xander qualifies. He jams his fingers into a small crevice in the rock face and pulls himself up another foot, trying very hard to look like it costs him no effort.