Endgame: The Calling by James Frey, Nils Johnson-Shelton Page A
Authors: James Frey, Nils Johnson-Shelton
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importantly, faithful. She can tell that he likes her. She wonders if she can use that. She wonders if she wants to use that.
“The next time I see the Nabataean . . .” Jago spits, trailing off.
They go down, down, down.
When they reach the bottom, they make sure the coast is clear, step out of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, and head toward the street, sticking to the shadows. Sarah has no idea that not more than 30 minutes before, the boy from Omaha who she still loves was right here.
And neither Sarah nor Jago knows that An Liu, the tricky bomb maker, the last to emerge from the portal, is watching them from a window, back up the stairs of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda.
Watching them and pointing a long metal object in their direction.
A wand.
An antenna.
A microphone.
A sneaky blink sneaky blink sneaky bit of blinking business.
CHIYOKO TAKEDA
Great White Pyramid, Qin Lin Mountains, China
Chiyoko Takeda slinks through the woods. She watched—and smiled as she watched—An Liu blow up the Calling. She considers it a great move. A great, great move.
Nothing like death and mayhem to cloud minds and mask intentions.
Chiyoko is tracking the Olmec and the Cahokian as they make for the pyramid. She’s on their right, to the east, moving silently. The Nabataean is also making his way toward the pyramid, but the Olmec and the Cahokian haven’t noticed him.
Chiyoko noticed. She saw the Sumerian leave through the mystical pyramid. Saw her melt away into its quicksilver wall.
The Great White Pyramid is a monument that speaks volumes to Chiyoko Takeda, the mute, the ever-ancient Mu, the Player of the 2nd line.
Just to look at it is an honor. It stands as a marker of space, history, and commonality. Chiyoko knows that pyramids were the Game Keepers’ tethers in the ancient past—tethers for their ships, their portals, their sources of energy—and someday they might be again, after it all comes and goes and comes again. The buildings or their remnants are in China, in Egypt, in Sumer, in Europe, in India, and in the Americas. Most of them have fallen down or vanished beneath mounds of dirt and foliage. Or they’ve been desecrated by people, ignorant humans who don’t deserve to survive what comes next. Some, like this pristine example, are even undiscovered. But none are like this one.
This one has not been polluted by human hands or minds. It hasn’t been eroded by wind or rain. Eaten by root or soil. Shattered by the quaking earth or an erupting volcano.
This one is special.
If she could, she’d stay and look at this one for a week, two, three. Wonder at its dimensions. Measure its footprint. Record its markings. Try to decipher them. But she can’t do any of this.
The game is on.
And she is tracking.
Her ropes—the hojo—are slung over her shoulders. Their deployment was a diversion, like An’s explosives. Not as effective, of course, but they served their purpose. Her ropes gave her the cover that allowed her to get off the tracking dart that struck Jago Tlaloc in the neck and chipped him. The dart that buzzed his ear like a mosquito.
Jago Tlaloc, the Olmec. Clearly aligned with Sarah Alopay, the Cahokian. The Players of the ancient tribes of the Americas. She watches them walk toward the pyramid. Chiyoko is near enough to hear their voices but not their words. Maccabee is limping close behind. Jago and Sarah have still not noticed him. Just behind the Nabataean is Aisling Kopp. Who will catch who, who will fight who, who will die?
The Olmec leads the Cahokian through the door. They vanish like a magic trick. Chiyoko starts to step forward, hoping to get in before Maccabee, but he’s too close. She knows what the others don’t—that the Olmec has the disk. Among the Mu the disks are worshipped as sacred and mysterious symbols. Chiyoko recognized it instantly: a disk of Baian-Kara-Ula. Disks that fell from the sky many ages ago. Disks with information and knowledge, clues and direction.
She has
“The next time I see the Nabataean . . .” Jago spits, trailing off.
They go down, down, down.
When they reach the bottom, they make sure the coast is clear, step out of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, and head toward the street, sticking to the shadows. Sarah has no idea that not more than 30 minutes before, the boy from Omaha who she still loves was right here.
And neither Sarah nor Jago knows that An Liu, the tricky bomb maker, the last to emerge from the portal, is watching them from a window, back up the stairs of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda.
Watching them and pointing a long metal object in their direction.
A wand.
An antenna.
A microphone.
A sneaky blink sneaky blink sneaky bit of blinking business.
CHIYOKO TAKEDA
Great White Pyramid, Qin Lin Mountains, China
Chiyoko Takeda slinks through the woods. She watched—and smiled as she watched—An Liu blow up the Calling. She considers it a great move. A great, great move.
Nothing like death and mayhem to cloud minds and mask intentions.
Chiyoko is tracking the Olmec and the Cahokian as they make for the pyramid. She’s on their right, to the east, moving silently. The Nabataean is also making his way toward the pyramid, but the Olmec and the Cahokian haven’t noticed him.
Chiyoko noticed. She saw the Sumerian leave through the mystical pyramid. Saw her melt away into its quicksilver wall.
The Great White Pyramid is a monument that speaks volumes to Chiyoko Takeda, the mute, the ever-ancient Mu, the Player of the 2nd line.
Just to look at it is an honor. It stands as a marker of space, history, and commonality. Chiyoko knows that pyramids were the Game Keepers’ tethers in the ancient past—tethers for their ships, their portals, their sources of energy—and someday they might be again, after it all comes and goes and comes again. The buildings or their remnants are in China, in Egypt, in Sumer, in Europe, in India, and in the Americas. Most of them have fallen down or vanished beneath mounds of dirt and foliage. Or they’ve been desecrated by people, ignorant humans who don’t deserve to survive what comes next. Some, like this pristine example, are even undiscovered. But none are like this one.
This one has not been polluted by human hands or minds. It hasn’t been eroded by wind or rain. Eaten by root or soil. Shattered by the quaking earth or an erupting volcano.
This one is special.
If she could, she’d stay and look at this one for a week, two, three. Wonder at its dimensions. Measure its footprint. Record its markings. Try to decipher them. But she can’t do any of this.
The game is on.
And she is tracking.
Her ropes—the hojo—are slung over her shoulders. Their deployment was a diversion, like An’s explosives. Not as effective, of course, but they served their purpose. Her ropes gave her the cover that allowed her to get off the tracking dart that struck Jago Tlaloc in the neck and chipped him. The dart that buzzed his ear like a mosquito.
Jago Tlaloc, the Olmec. Clearly aligned with Sarah Alopay, the Cahokian. The Players of the ancient tribes of the Americas. She watches them walk toward the pyramid. Chiyoko is near enough to hear their voices but not their words. Maccabee is limping close behind. Jago and Sarah have still not noticed him. Just behind the Nabataean is Aisling Kopp. Who will catch who, who will fight who, who will die?
The Olmec leads the Cahokian through the door. They vanish like a magic trick. Chiyoko starts to step forward, hoping to get in before Maccabee, but he’s too close. She knows what the others don’t—that the Olmec has the disk. Among the Mu the disks are worshipped as sacred and mysterious symbols. Chiyoko recognized it instantly: a disk of Baian-Kara-Ula. Disks that fell from the sky many ages ago. Disks with information and knowledge, clues and direction.
She has
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