LITMIR.BIZ

       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.

       We are in the Qin Lin Mountains. South and west of the city now known as Xi’an. This is the Great White Pyramid. Larger than the pyramid at Giza. Like my kind, it has long remained hidden from human eyes.

      The Players stop looking at one another, their eyes drawn to the pyramid. Its surface shimmers, and three cloaked figures drift out of a black doorway that appears for less than a second. Two of the figures remain near the pyramid, like guards. The 3rd joins the Players in an instant, as if the space between the pyramid and the forest is nonexistent. It stands behind Sarah Alopay. She cranes her neck in order to take it in.

      The being’s cloak is dark and punctuated with illuminated points like it is made of space, as if it is covered in stars. Around its neck it wears a round, flat disk covered with glyphs.

      The figure is tall—at least 7.5 feet—and thin, with broad shoulders and long arms. It is wearing shimmering shoes that look to be made of the same substance as the Great White Pyramid. Its feet are very long and very flat.

      It has a long, narrow head. Like its voice, the thing’s face is neither male nor female. Its skin is like mother-of-pearl. Its long hair is platinum. Its thin eyes are completely black.

      It is obviously not of this world. And though they feel like they should be scared, the Players are at ease with the creature. Although they’ve never seen anything quite like it, there is an odd familiarity about it. Some of them even find the being bewitching, beautiful.

       I am kepler 22b. You have come to learn about Endgame. I will teach you. First, it is the custom that you introduce yourselves.

      kepler 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

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