Джеймс Фрей – Sky Key (страница 13)

“What reason could there possibly be?” a booming female voice asks from the far end of the table. “I demand to know. It looks to me as if she fled at the drawing of first blood.” The voice belongs to Helena, 66, a former Player, the 2nd-most esteemed of the last 208 years. She is squat and round and strong and still swift. “A finger? I would have given an eye and a lung and a leg before I came hopping home. I would have given an arm and my hearing and my tongue! No, I would have given all! I would not have come home for any reason but death!”

Boort, her husband of 46 years—they were married at the stroke of midnight on the day she lapsed—reaches out and pats her forearm. “Now, Helena.”

“Aand mat kha!” she exclaims, shucking off Boort’s hand so she can point at Shari. “That—that—that girl gave up! She gave up. She never even made a kill in all of her training! Takes some effort to wiggle out of that time-honored obligation. More effort than what she put into Playing. I had thirty kills before I lapsed. But her? No! She is too good for death. Imagine that! A Player of Endgame. A Player of Endgame who also happens to be a mother. Can you believe it? That is what we have pinned our hopes to. A spineless quitter.”

Now the room is quiet; Helena’s words are like a volley of gunshots, everyone taking cover, not yet ready to poke their heads back out. Shari, for her part, does not flinch at any of it. She sits straight-backed and listens. Her eyes have moved to each speaker, and so now she stares at Helena. Her stare is calm and confident. She loves Helena like family, in spite of her ire. Loves all of these people.

Helena bristles at Shari’s look, which she mistakes for insolence. “Do not glare at me like that, Player.”

Shari tilts her head to the side as if to apologize, but remains silent. Her eyes drift past Helena to the children’s room, where she picks out a flash of Little Alice’s bright-pink trousers among the wheeling limbs of children. Jamal squeezes her knee under the table, just as he would if they were alone in their yard, watching a sunset.

“Helena, you may be right, but it serves no purpose to compare Shari Chopra to you or any other Player.” This is Jovinderpihainu, a former Player and the elder of the Harappan line. He is 94, as sharp as he was when he was 44, even 24. He is small and shrunken in his orange robes, skin as wrinkled and creased as the fabric. “She chooses a different path. She always has. We mustn’t question it.”

“But I am questioning it, Jov!” Helena persists. This is what everyone calls him, except the children, who call him Happy. They love his smiles, practically toothless, his last shocks of silver hair always sticking out every which way. He doesn’t smile much anymore, not since Endgame began. The children wonder why.

Jov raises a hand, a familiar and crystal-clear indication that he has heard enough. “I will repeat, but not again: this is not about you, Helena.” Helena crosses her arms. Boort whispers some soothing words into her ear, but she gives every appearance of not listening to him.

“Perhaps we should ask Shari’s father, hm?” Jov says. “Paru? What have you to say? Your daughter has taken a strange route in the game. Have you any insight?”

Paru clears his throat. “It is true that my daughter is not a natural killer. I am not sure that, had I been chosen in the past, I would have been much different. But while Shari may not be the bloodthirstiest among us”—he is interrupted by scattered snickers—“I can say one thing with confidence. Shari is the most compassionate soul of everyone in this room, yourself included, Jov. With respect.”

Jov nods slowly.

Paru takes a deep breath, trying to meet every set of eyes upon him. “Compassion may not seem like much of a weapon for Endgame. It is not hard like a fist or sharp like a sword or fast like a bullet. It does not travel in straight lines delivering death. It is not final, but it can be fierce. This I know. If Shari can survive and somehow win, then we will be better for it. The new world of men will need compassion just as much as it will need resourcefulness and cunning. Maybe more, if this blessed Earth will be as broken as we believe it will be. Ask yourself, my family—if the Harappan are to inherit the aftermath, would you prefer our champion to be a ruthless killer, or one who has mastered her fear and found her heart? One who can teach her disciples the ways of compassion in lieu of the ways of the fist?”

“Thank you, Paru,” Jov says. “You speak wisely. I wonder, though—”

“But how”—a soft but clear voice interrupts—“will she win if she is here, and not out there pursuing Sky Key?”

This is Pravheet, a youthful 59, perhaps the most respected member of the Harappan line, even more than Jov. He was the Player during a false start of Endgame, one of only three false starts in history. The infamous Chasm-game perpetrated by the Zero line in 1972. The one that he alone exposed, but not before felling four Players of other lines. It was Pravheet who single-handedly obliterated the Zero line—that delusional band of outsiders—in the aftermath of the Chasm-game. Most importantly, Pravheet is the one who, after lapsing, swore never to kill again. He became an ascetic for 23 years before taking Una as his wife and making a family of his own. During his seclusion he studied the ways of the ancient seers, deciphering the secret texts of the Harappan and the Buddha that their line has protected for millennia.

“Pravheet is right to ask,” Jov says. “I think it is time we hear from the Player herself.” And now, all their eyes turn to Shari Chopra. Jamal takes her hand and straightens next to her, as if he’s readying for an onslaught.

“Elders,” Shari says, her voice serene. “We needn’t look for Sky Key.”

And sure enough the voices come fast and furious. Shari can make out only snatches of their confusion, their anger, their exasperation.

“But this is Endgame” … “What is this blasphemy” … “not look for Sky Key?” … “lose” … “We’ll lose” … “She dooms us all” … “All is lost and the dark is coming” … “What does she mean” … “Surely she’s loony” … “She is giving up” … “Maybe she knows” … “no no no” … “How can this child be a Player?”…

“ENOUGH!” Jov shouts. Even the cavorting children in the adjoining room stop playing. He holds out his hand, palm up, in Shari’s direction. “Please, my Player. Explain.”

“We needn’t look for Sky Key because we already have it.”

These words have the opposite effect on the assembly. Instead of vociferous objection, there is disbelieving silence.

Finally, Chipper says, “Already have it?”

Shari lowers her eyes. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Where? When did you go and get it? You can’t have gotten it before Earth Key,” Helena says, her voice accusatory.

“In a manner of speaking, Auntie, I did.”

“What are you saying, Player? Please, speak plainly.” It is Pravheet again.

“Sky Key is my Little Alice.”

All the adults go deathly quiet, save for Una and Ghala, who both gasp. Paru’s voice is quavering as he asks, “B-but how can y-you be sure?”

“It was my clue from the kepler. And it is what Little Alice has told me too, in her own way. She’s been having dreams. I’ve been having them as well.”

“But why would the Makers do this?” Chipper asks. “It is immoral to involve a child in this way.”

“The Makers are immoral, Uncle,” Shari says emphatically. “Endgame is immoral. Or rather … amoral.”

More gasps.

Over half the people in this hall truly believe that the keplers exist on a plane higher than the gods. The gods are Their children, after all, and humans are at another remove, the children of the gods. The keplers are the gods of the gods and, for many here, they are beyond reproach.

“I will not listen to this heresy!” Gup blurts. He stands quickly from his chair and stalks out of the room. Short-tempered and slow-witted Gup. No one follows him.

“I do not wish to cause dissension, elders, but I alone have met a kepler. After gaining some distance from it, and considering the clue it gave me, I have come to the conclusion that the one I met was … detached. At best. It came to announce the commencement of Endgame, and the coming of the Great Extinction, and all it really did was talk as if it were reciting some kind of history already passed. Don’t get me wrong—it was physically wondrous, unlike anything I have ever seen, and it had abilities that go far beyond anything we have learned. Yet for all this power, its message was thus: ‘Nearly every human and animal will die. You twelve will fight to figure out who doesn’t. Good luck.’ Like a child plucking wings off a butterfly. There is no nobility in that.”

Shari pauses. She expects another rush of questions. This time, the other Harappan stay silent. Shari continues.

“As for the other Players, they fall into two camps—those who should win, and those who shouldn’t. At least half were twisted monsters, poisoned by their vanity, by the knowledge that they are among the deadliest people on Earth. The others were different, more self-aware, perhaps capable of feelings beyond bloodlust. I would say that fewer than half deserve to win. In our brief meeting, only two distinguished themselves—and shamefully, I was not one. The first was the Aksumite, a dark-skinned and regal boy with the bluest of eyes, who begged us to pool our knowledge and work together in an effort to perhaps spare Earth from undue suffering. The other was the Koori, a wild woman of Australia, who saved my life in Chengdu. But mostly the Players were … just people. People driven by a purpose they don’t—we don’t—wholly understand.”