The Calling. James Frey

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СКАЧАТЬ 22b looks down on Sarah. She senses that, for the moment, she can speak, but she’s unsure of what to say.

       Your name. Your number. Your tribe.

      Sarah takes a breath and slows her heart to 34 bpm. An insanely low number. She doesn’t want to give anything away, knowing that the others might pick up clues in even the simplest statements. “I am Sarah Alopay of the 233rd. I am Cahokian.”

      The ability to speak moves to her right, like an invisible token.

      “Jago Tlaloc. 21st. Olmec.” Jago is calm, and pleased to be seated next to Sarah.

      “Aisling Kopp, the 3rd, La Tène Celt.” Aisling is the tall, thin-lipped redhead Marcus saw piled in the pagoda. She is curt and clear.

      “I am Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt of the 144th. I am your Aksumite brother.” Hilal is refined, soft-spoken, very dark-skinned, regal. His eyes are bright blue, his straight teeth a blinding white. His hands are joined easily in his lap. He looks tall and strong, looks the way a Player is supposed to look, somehow both menacing and peaceful.

      “Maccabee Adlai. I represent the 8th line. I am Nabataean.” Maccabee is big, but not huge, and impeccably dressed in a casual linen suit and white cotton shirt, no tie. Some of the Players interpret his pretty clothes as a sign of weakness.

      “Baitsakhan,” barks a boy with round tanned cheeks and smoldering brown eyes. That is all he says.

       Say the rest.

      Baitsakhan shakes his head adamantly.

       You must.

      kepler 22b insists without sounding upset, and Baitsakhan shakes his head again.

      Stubborn boy, Sarah thinks. Trouble, probably.

      kepler 22b raises a spindly, seven-fingered hand, and the boy’s body begins to shiver. Very much against his will he vomits the words “13th line. Donghu.” When he’s done, he looks at kepler 22b with equal measures of fury and awe.

      The next Player is thin, his chest concave, his shoulders slight and curved around him like wings. Dark circles hang under his eyes. A red tear is tattooed in the corner of his left eye. He has shaved an inch-thick line through his hair in a reverse Mohawk. As the Players take him in, they realize that he has been turning his head repeatedly in tiny, jerking movements.

      He blinks a dozen times before blurting, “A-A-An Liu. Three-three-three-three-three hundred seventy-seventy-seventy-seventy-seven. Shang.”

      It is a terrible first impression. A stammering weakling here amongst trained killers.

      “Shari Chopra,” a beautiful, ocher-skinned girl says in a peaceful, meditative voice. “55th. I’m the Harrapan.”

      “My name’s Marcus Loxias Megalos of the fighting 5th. Watch your asses, because I’m the Minoan.”

      Marcus’s bluster is poorly played, like the nonsense a boxer might spout at a prefight press conference. The other Players have no need for such bravado. A few chuckle silently.

      “I am Kala Mozami,” a slight girl, wrapped in a brilliant red-and-blue head scarf, says with a thick Persian accent. The force and confidence of her tone is at total odds with her appearance. Her eyes are as green as dampened jade. “89th, sisters and brothers, I trace my line through the ancient, golden heart of Sumer.”

      She likes words, Jago thinks. A poet. Probably a liar.

      “Alice Ulapala. 34th. Koori,” Alice says with an endearing Australian accent. She’s huge, muscled, and a little plump. A wrestler. A shot-putter. A weightlifter. Her skin is dark, and her eyes are darker, a mop of curly black hair as wild as a nest of snakes. She has a pale, crescent-shaped birthmark above her right eye that disappears into her hair. Without compunction or ire she spits on the ground before the next person speaks.

      Only the next person—the last person—doesn’t speak.

      Chiyoko Takeda.

      All eyes move to the mute. She has pale, ivory skin and shoulder-length hair with bangs cut in a perfectly straight line above her eyebrows. Her full lips are deep red. Her cheeks high and round. She fits the stereotype of a demure Japanese girl, but her eyes are forward and confident and determined.

      Chiyoko Takeda does not speak. She is from the 2nd. Her line is more than ancient. Nameless and forgotten. We will call it Mu. kepler 22b raises its right hand, reaches out, opens its fingers. A white hologram sprouts from its palm. It is a perfect circle 8.25 inches in diameter.

      A deep gong resonates in the chests of the 12, and a thin, bright light shoots from the top of the pyramid, marking a point in the night sky. kepler 22b begins to read, and as it does, the holographic circle turns slowly.

      “Everything is here. Every word, name, number, place, distance, color, and time. Every letter, symbol, and glyph, on every page, in every chip, on every fiber. Every protein, molecule, atom, electron, quark. Everything, always. Every breath. Every life. Every death. So says, and so has been said, and so will be said again. Everything is here.”

      The gong resonates in their chests again and the light from the pyramid disappears.

       “You are the twelve. All are fated to die—except one. The one who will win.”

      kepler 22b looks up from the hologram and regards them carefully.

       “As it is with all games, the first move is essential.”

      kepler 22b looks back to the hologram.

       “To win you must acquire three keys, and the keys must be found in order. Earth Key. Sky Key. Sun Key. All the keys are hidden here on Earth.”

      kepler 22b grabs the holographic disk midair and tosses it like a Frisbee. It stops cold over the center of the circle and begins to grow, patterns spreading across the surface. Twelve hairlines of light shoot from it and each strikes one player in the middle of the forehead. The Players all see the same thing through their mind’s eye: Earth, as if from space.

       “This is Earth.”

      The image changes. The blue of the oceans becomes gray. Streaks of black move across continents. Red scars bloom. The poles become whiter. The expanse of blue and the bands of green and the blots of brown are gone. The vibrant colors of a living Earth appear only in tiny, clustered pinpricks.

      “This will be Earth after the Event. The Event is coming, and it is part of Endgame. The Event will destroy everything. The winner of Endgame earns survival. Survival for themselves and for every member of their line.”

      kepler 22b pauses.

      The image of the ravaged Earth disappears.

       “Endgame СКАЧАТЬ