by James Frey
He can’t. If he did, it would be too dangerous for her.
For Sarah.
For the one he loves and has pledged himself to.
For the one he has temporarily betrayed.
He’s been thinking of her since his mother and father imprisoned her against his wishes. Thinking of when he should break her out. Because he has to break her out. Even if it violates the pact he has with his blood and his line. Sarah and he are together now. A team.
And she is a Player.
Like him.
She needs to Play.
He is angry with his mother and his father, so angry, but he can’t show it. If he did, they would kill her. He has protested—not protesting would also be suspicious, and would probably result in her death as well—but he has also pretended to agree that Sarah needs to be held. His parents seem to have accepted Jago’s acceptance. Either that or they’re willing to accept his lies, which amounts to the same thing.
But inside he knows: he will not Play without her. He made her a promise. Unless something unexpected happens, he won’t leave Isla Tranquila without Sarah Alopay.
He won’t.
But first he has to see the Olmec elder.
First he has to see Aucapoma Huayna.
Now.
A knock on his door.
“Yeah.”
Renzo wedges his head into the room. “She’s ready.”
Jago rises. Smooths his hands over his thighs. Crosses the room and picks up Earth Key—so small, so seemingly insignificant—from a mahogany bowl and wraps a fist around it. He and Renzo go to the inner courtyard. Jago doesn’t look for Sarah at her window. They’re met by Guitarrero, smoking a cigarillo by the fountain. Guitarrero asks if Jago is ready and Jago answers, “Of course.”
They leave the courtyard, enter the guest wing of the sprawling house, go toward Aucapoma Huayna’s room.
Five doors down, at the end of the hallway, is Sarah Alopay.
Jago can almost smell her anger.
They reach Aucapoma Huayna’s door. Guitarrero takes a pull of his thin, brown smoke. “She has requested that you go alone, Jago.”
Good, Jago thinks. “Very well,” he says.
He puts a hand on the door. “Papi, if I have to leave Sarah in Peru, will you . . . look after her?”
“I will.”
“You swear?”
“I do.”
Jago, the human lie detector, can hear that Guitarrero lies to him. His own father. Lying.
Again.
“Thank you,” Jago says, and he means it this time. He needed to know what his father’s intentions were. He pushes the door all the way open and disappears into the room.
The shades are drawn, but the lamplight makes it bright and pleasant. Some tinkling classical music plays over a small radio. Aucapoma sits at a round table, waiting. The woman is stooped and frail—more bone than muscle—and her skin is as wrinkled as a raisin’s. She wears a light blue silk robe and puffy slippers on her feet. Her thin wrists are covered in silver bangles. She looks straight at Jago—through him, almost—and says with a sweet voice in the Olmec’s old language, “Come, child. Sit.”
Jago does. “Thank you for making the trip, Aucapoma Huaya.”
She waves a hand in front of her face. “Think nothing of it, child. This is what we have all been waiting for, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Now, I am old—as if you couldn’t see that!—so let’s get down to it, hmm?”
Jago appreciates her directness. “Agreed. Do you want to see it?”
She turns her hand over and holds it open. “Very much so.”
“Here.” Jago drops Earth Key onto her creased skin.
“Ahhhhhhh,” Aucapoma Huayna breathes. “So light . . . yet so weighted.”
Jago doesn’t speak.
“The Sky People are infinite craftsmen—or I should say, craftsbeings!” She laughs at her own poor joke, a small, birdlike laugh.
“They made us, didn’t they?”
Aucapoma Huayna wraps her fingers around Earth Key and points a long index finger at Jago. “Indeed they did. And they ruled us—especially the Olmec—favorably for many generations.”
“Aucapoma Huayna. You possess the wisdom of King Pachakutiq. You know more about the ancient history and its truth than any living Olmec. Tell me. What do you know of the game?”
“I do know much about the ancient history, Jago. As if I was whispered facts by the Makers themselves. I know of the ancient gold mining and genetic experimentation, of specifications for pyramid construction, about how the Makers would concentrate the energy fields found all over Earth to their purpose. I know the secrets of the last ice age and the Great Flood that ended it. I know of the ancient flying machines and the connections between the continents in prehistory—between China and South America, between India and Africa. I know of epistemology and the subjugation of people through systems of belief. I know how to kill people in every conceivable way. I know dozens of languages, both forgotten and dead. I am the missing anthropological link.” She pauses.
If this is getting right to it, then Jago is glad she didn’t want to sit and have a long conversation about all that’s happened.
“And now that I have seen this Earth Key, I know exactly what to do with it.”
Here we go, he thinks.
She stares at the small black ball as she says quietly, “Earth Key was sourced from the great sunken quarries of the older-than-old settlement found beneath and among the late-antiquity city now called Tiwanaku, south and east of the great high lake covering the Crag of Lead. There you will find the Gateway of the Sun. I know it intimately, from top to bottom. Take Earth Key to it and put it in the southernmost side of the archway precisely two luk’a—one hundred and twenty-one-point-two centimeters—from the ground. Then and only then will the Player see the location of Sky Key.”
Jago sighs. “Tiwanaku.”
“Yes, my Player.”
“Fucking Cielo territory—I mean, sorry for the language, Aucapoma Huayna.”
The old lady chuckles again. “Please. I am old. There is nothing virginal about me—especially regarding my ears and my tongue!”
“And do you know anything about the third and final key—Sun Key?”
“No. Nothing.”
Aucapoma Huayna smirks before falling into a light coughing fit. When she is finished, she holds out her hand and returns Earth Key to Jago. Her eyes are glassy from the coughing.
Jago stands and composes himself with an air of propriety. “Thank you, Aucapoma Huayna. Please continue to safeguard our ancient knowledge. I may need it again. Now, if it’s all right, I have to Play.”
Jago spins on his heel and takes three steps but is frozen as Aucapoma Huayna hisses, “Stop!” Her voice is different—strained from whatever caught in her throat and made her cough. “I need to tell you about the girl,” she growls.
Jago turns, though much more slowly this time. “What about her?”
She takes a sip of water from a small, gold-leafed glass. “What has she told you about her line?”
“Not much. I get the impression they’re not as prepared as we are—they thought they were more ‘normal’ than the other lines, for some reason. Don’t get me wrong—Sarah’s as capable a killer as any Player, but her line seems to lack the . . . resources of ours and some of the others.”
Aucapoma nods slowly. “There is a reason for this, my Player.”
Jago steps forward. “Yes?”
“You did not know about any of the lines when the game began, but I have known about the Cahokians for many, many years.”
“What about them?”
“They are alone as the only one of the twelve lines that, in the history of history, stood up against and fought the Makers.”
Jago falls into his seat. “Xehalór Tlaloc mentioned something like that to me a long time ago. Something about a battle between humans and Sky Gods. So it’s true?”
; “Yes.”
“When?”
“In the year 1613 of the Common Era. The Makers were done mining Earth for gold by that late year, but the Cahokians owed them a thousand of their youths as their end of an old bargain. And when the last contingent of Makers on the planet asked for these children before their departure, the Cahokians refused.”
“Didn’t they fear the Makers’ wrath?”
“No. By then they understood that the Makers weren’t gods but mortal, and that their abilities were due to technology and not divine power. The Cahokians had the hubris to think they could use powerful technology the Makers had given them—essentially, projectile energy weapons—to repel the Makers. What they didn’t account for was that the Makers had kept other weapons in reserve, and after three days of battle that saw grave losses on both sides, the Makers simply obliterated the battlefield from orbit, without even bothering to safeguard their own soldiers. No Makers survived. Only two male Cahokians lived, plus a scattered group of women and children.”
“So that was the price they paid. Near annihilation.”
“They paid a dearer price than that. As an ultimate insult, they were made to forget the true name of their line—which translates simply as ‘The People.’”
“Dio,” Jago exclaims.
“There’s more. The Makers are afraid, my Player. They are afraid that, given another hundred and fifty years or so—but a fraction of a blink to the Makers—that we—”
“Would become something more like their equals.”
“Yes.”
“Which I believe is why Endgame is happening now. Not merely to fulfill the prophecy, but to reduce our numbers, to stunt our progress.”
They share a silence.
“You must kill her, Jago,” Aucapoma Huayna orders blithely.
“What?”
“An alliance with her is folly. The Makers will not allow her people to win. They simply won’t. And they won’t allow one of her allies to win either. They especially won’t allow her lover to win.”
“I . . .”
“You must kill her, by your own hand. You must show the Makers that you would go to any end to win.”
“But why? You just admitted that they’re mortal, and implied that they’re petty.”
“No more or less than us. It is true that we are made in the image of our creator.” Aucapoma Huayna takes Jago’s hands. Her cheeks are suddenly red, her lips quaking with urgency. “But they are still to be feared. That is the lesson of the Cahokian rebellion. We can’t test them, Jago Tlaloc.”
“What if the game can be stopped?”
“It can’t,” she insists, leaning ever closer. Jago can smell her breath—an unpleasant and heady combination of coffee and vitamins and stomach acid. “The Event has been triggered. Nothing can stop it now. You must Play. And you—you!—must kill the Cahokian.”
xiii
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
The Vyctory Hotel and Casino, Personal Suite of Wayland Vyctory, Las Vegas, Nevada, United States
Hilal follows Rima Subotic down a featureless hallway, the two Nethinim behind him.
This is what it all leads to, Hilal thinks. Not Playing the way I thought that I would. But this.
Destroying the Corrupter.
His nerves shake and rattle. He thinks of sand and wind and sweet dates and cool water. Those physical things that bring him peace.
They still his heart.
Barely.
“Another question, Aksumite,” Subotic says over her shoulder.
“Yes?”
“Why have you forsaken your line and come to submit to Master Vyctory?”
“I have not forsaken it in the least, sister,” Hilal says plainly.
“Explain yourself.”
“Not long after the Calling, I learned that the Players could save humanity and prevent the game from even beginning.”
Subotic reaches the end of the hall and stops. There is no door, no window, no opening of any kind. Hilal senses that the Nethinim have stopped moving as well. Subotic gives Hilal an inquisitive look.
“All we had to do was stop Playing,” Hilal continues. “If one of us had not retrieved Earth Key, then the Event would not have been triggered, and Endgame would not have progressed.”
“Yes. The Maker said as much in its announcement.”
“Precisely. I tried to inform the other Players of this, but my efforts were thwarted by a coronal mass ejection that, by the hand of the Makers, only fell on our little corner of Ethiopia. I was simultaneously attacked by two aligned Players and suffered these wounds. Not thirty-six hours afterward, Earth Key was found, and the Event triggered. After spending many hours in consultation with my master, we realized that the Makers had intervened in the game. . . . They are not supposed to intervene.”
“No. They are not. But that still does not explain why you are here, pledging yourself to Master Ea.”
“We decided that if the Makers were going to violate their pledge to us, then we could at least return the favor by opening the ark and seeing what powers lay within. Two Nethinim died in the task.”
“The ark is a powerful tool.”
“Yes. In it were two cobras, each chasing the other’s tail.” Hilal grips the snake heads of the canes. His palms sweat. He knows that Ea is watching and listening to this conversation, and Hilal is on the razor’s edge where truth meets falsehood.
“The ouroboros, in the flesh,” Subotic says.
“Yes. Consumed by anger at the Makers, my master took up each and whipped their heads on the edge of Father Moses’s vessel. Both died and frittered to ash. The only other things in the ark were a pile of dust, the manna machine, which he didn’t touch, and the device that you hold.”
Subotic turns it in her hand.
“It was lifeless in my master’s grip, as it is in yours, but as soon as I—a Player of Endgame—touched it, it sprang to life. Its message is simple, and presented me with two paths: play the game by chasing after the keys, or seek out Master Ea. After learning that the game was folly—that the Makers could affect the outcome of the Great Puzzle after they had promised since time immemorial that they would not—we decided that we needed help. Pure and simple. We know that Ea hates his Maker brothers and sisters more than anything, so what better person to help than the most powerful living being on Earth? Who better to ally ourselves with than the enemy of our enemy? Understand, Ms. Subotic. The other Players are not my principal concern anymore, not even the ones who did this to me.” He passes a hand over his face. “The real enemy is the Makers, and Endgame itself.”
Subotic nods slowly. “It is a convincing argument, Aksumite. And one that I accept. Please, follow me.”
Yes, she is very good at concealing her true allegiance, Hilal thinks. So good that it briefly occurs to him that perhaps Subotic is not a mole at all, and that he is walking headfirst into an elaborate trap.
He dashes these thoughts from his mind.
Trap or no, he is about to meet Ea face to face.
Subotic turns to the wall and walks forward. Even Hilal is somewhat surprised when she simply passes through it, as if she were a ghost. He hesitates, but one of the Nethinim prods him from behind. Hilal sets one foot after the other and, like Subotic, he walks through the wall as well.
It is nothing more than a holographic projection.
Hilal finds himself in the entryway of a grand room. The floor is solid marble; the ceiling soars 13 meters overhead. The walls to his left and right angle outward in a wide V, and are leafed with silver and adorned with all manner of exotic plants and flowers. A dark wooden cage on his left is filled with over a dozen parakeets, yellow and blue and orange and pink, all twittering happily. Opposite the birds is an ancient book of several hundred pages on a waist-high stand. It is bound in dark leather, and open to a section in the middle. Hilal can barely see its markings, and they are unfamiliar and foreign.
Several meters away is a tall tree made of multicolored glass, il
luminated from within, glowing with every color of the rainbow. Arranged around the tree are plush chairs and couches and low tables. Past this sitting area, at the widest part of the V-shaped room, are the windows, floor-to-ceiling, looking over Las Vegas with its fantastical buildings devoted to the god called Money and a limitless sky and the jagged red mountains as a backdrop. And there, standing at the window, facing Hilal, is Wayland Vyctory.
He looks to be about 70. His eyes are bright, his smile plastered on. He appears to have had a lot of plastic surgery. He wears a hand-tailored suit and shirt and no tie. He has a gigantic gold-and-diamond ring on his left pinkie.
“Master Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt, welcome to my home.” When he speaks, the skin on the left side of his face barely moves.
Subotic steps aside and lowers her head.
“My lord,” Hilal says, moving toward his enemy. “Thank you for receiving me.”
The Nethinim follow silently.
Hilal and Vyctory are 10.72 meters apart and closing. Hilal grips the canes. Gets ready to activate them. He just needs to be less than a meter away and the ancient snakes will do the rest.
Only 8.6 meters.
Vyctory stops by the colorful glass tree. “I can see your pulse, Player Aksumite. What troubles you?”
Hilal keeps walking. Pushes his diaphragm down, tries to feel the weight of his legs, his guts, his heart. “Nothing, lord. I am, well . . . excited. Strange things these days, amazing things. No amount of training is sufficient. I never thought Endgame would start. And I especially never thought I would find you!” Hilal stoops deferentially.
While Hilal looks to the floor, he catches Vyctory making a small gesture to his Nethinim. Hilal looks up. Vyctory smiles. “I am excited too. I was wondering when—if—a Player would find me. I am glad that it is you.”
Vyctory’s voice is mellifluous and intoxicating. Hilal must resist it. All his training has been for this.