The Calling

A trap? he wonders.

He takes a tentative step forward.

He can make out features on three of the others. One girl looks Middle Eastern, maybe Persian. She has fine, copper skin; thick black hair; a hooked nose; and high cheeks. A boy—and he is undoubtedly young—is tanned and has round cheeks. His face is locked in a grimace. A tall girl has short-cropped red hair and freckles and lips so thin and pale they are practically nonexistent. She looks like she’s dreaming of rainbows and kittens, not the end of the world.

He takes another step, drawn to the pile of Players like a moth to a flame.

You are late.

The voice is in Marcus’s head, like the voice of his thoughts, only it’s not the voice of his thoughts.

Marcus begins to say he’s sorry, but before the words can pass his lips, the voice comes again.

It is not preferable, but it is acceptable.

The voice is pleasant, deep, neither male nor female.

“You can hear—”

I can hear your thoughts.

“I’d prefer to speak.”

Fine.

The others did too.

Except for one.

“Why are they wrapped up like that?”

So I can take them.

“You need me to put on one of those things too?” Marcus is impatient. His lateness makes it worse.

Yes.

“Okay. Where do I go?”

Here.

“Where?” Marcus sees nothing. He blinks—a routine, taken-for-granted, split-second blink—and when he opens his eyes, floating before him is one of the silvery shrouds. He can see faint markings in gold, green, and black on the inside of the cloth. He recognizes some of the characters—Arabic, Chinese, Minoan, Grecian, Egyptian, Mesoamerican, Sanskrit—but many are unknown. Some must belong to the other Players. Some must belong to whoever is speaking to him. “Where are you?” he asks as he takes the shroud.

Here.

“Where?” The cloth has substance but is virtually weightless, and it’s cold, freezing cold.

Everywhere.

“What do I do?”

Put it on, Marcus Loxias Megalos. Time, as you understand it, is of the essence.

He pulls the shroud over his shoulders, and it’s like stepping out of a sauna and into Antarctica. The sensation is shocking, and would be debilitating if not for the pair of unseen hands wrapping a blindfold around his head. As soon as the blindfold is in place, Marcus falls into an immediate slumber. It’s so deep that he can’t feel his body. There’s no cold or heat. There’s no pain or pleasure. He is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It’s as though his body has ceased to exist.

What consumes him is the image of a vast black nothingness perforated by points of light in a rainbow of colors. Blotting out this cosmic scrim is a silent, cratered, tumbling rock that gets closer and closer but never arrives.

There’s no telling how big it is.

Or how small.

It just is.

Tumbling.

Closer and closer and closer.

I flew around a mountain and then we came to a valley. Directly below us was a gigantic white pyramid. It looked as if it were from a fairy tale. The pyramid was draped in shimmering white. It could have been metal, or some other form of stone. It was white on all sides. What was most curious about it was its capstone: a large piece of precious gem–like material. I was deeply moved by the colossal size of the thing.

—US Air Force pilot James Gaussman,

March 1945, somewhere over central China

KEPLER 22B (#ulink_6bf5a746-93ba-5648-b176-2128c8dcede3)

Great White Pyramid, Qin Lin Mountains, China

You may look.

Each Player opens his or her eyes.

They are seated in a circle, cross-legged, straight-backed, their hands joined in their laps. The blindfolds, the shrouds, and the overwhelming cold they carried are gone. The 12 are free to move their heads, hands, and torsos, but any attempt to stand is thwarted by paralysis.

Your legs are fine. They will work when I’ve finished.

The being who shepherded them is nowhere to be seen, even though the voice is present, as if it simultaneously stands behind each of them.

Several Players try to speak, but like their legs, their mouths are frozen.

They look around. They’re in a forest surrounded by hills and mountains. The air is crisp and cool, the ground soft, sounds muted. Behind the northern side of the circle, 754 feet away, is a huge pyramid. It has no discernible openings or markings. Its edges are perfectly hewn. There are no variations in its mercurial surface—no lines suggesting stonework or construction of any kind. Its base measures 800 feet across. It is nearly as high. Its apex glows bright and white.

They look around the circle. They’re seeing one another for the first time. The Players they’ll stalk, follow, fight, love, betray, fear, kill. They commit everything to memory: eye color, visible tattoos, birthmarks, hairstyles, postures, jawlines, dimples, mannerisms, everything.

They judge, make assumptions, take guesses. Each of them has been trained for this: the quick recognition of enemies, the parsing out of weaknesses.

The Players are even more captivating to one another than the immense pyramid.

They are the 12.