Sky Key

by James Frey

  He would rather not be Playing right now.

  Not at all.

  Sarah snaps her fingers and goes back to her browser and changes the string of numbers and then—presto!—the message changes. They lean together to read what Hilal wrote about Sky Key. About Little Alice.

  “Hijo de puta. Do you think he’s right? Do you think Sky Key is . . . a person? A child?”

  “Either that or al-Salt has a major ax to grind with Chopra. But let’s assume it is true. If he’s right about Sky Key, is he also right that killing her will stop Endgame?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Yeah, only one way.”

  They fall silent. Renzo can be seen half a kilometer away, emerging from a low brick house. He immediately begins trotting toward them.

  Sarah says, “Jago, what exactly are we doing here?”

  Jago tells her about Aucapoma Huayna and what she revealed about Earth Key and how it should tell them the location of Sky Key with far more reliability than some other Player’s coded YouTube comment. He says nothing about the Cahokians or about Aucapoma Huayna’s order to kill Sarah. He won’t kill her, and now’s not the time to talk about her line’s history.

  When he finishes, Sarah says, “So we’re here to take Earth Key to this Gateway thing . . .”

  “And verify if al-Salt is at least right about Sky Key’s location.”

  “Bingo.” Sarah points across the road. “Here’s Renzo.”

  “It wasn’t cheap,” he says, “but we’ll have the place to ourselves for the next two hours.”

  Sarah and Jago slide off the Mazda’s hood and don’t bother telling Renzo about Hilal’s message. India is on the other side of the planet, and they have work to do.

  They get in the car. Drive directly east, the early-morning sun shining into their faces. Sarah eyes a vulture turning wide circles in the northern sky.

  A few minutes later they pull into a parking spot near a barricade. Beyond are the ruins of the once-great pre-Incan city-state of Tiwanaku.

  They sit for a moment and stare across the plain.

  “Am I the only one who’s suddenly nervous?” Renzo asks.

  “No,” Jago and Sarah say together.

  “Good.”

  AN LIU

  Shang Safe House, Unnamed Street off Ahiripukur Second Lane, Ballygunge, Kolkata, India

  Could it be? Is it blinkBLINKshiver is it BLINKBLINK is it working?

  An leans forward, rubs the necklace between his thumb and index finger. The tics subside. He squints.

  Could it really be?

  He sits alone in a low-ceilinged room, the only light coming from a collection of glowing screens. He has a keyboard on his knees, a trackball on his chair’s armrest, Chiyoko’s uncle’s sword leaning against the desk. On the back of his monitor, a black 13 is crudely scrawled in permanent marker.

  Alone in a blacked-out room and adorned with explosives, the virtual world at his fingertips. No matter where An might find himself, this is the setting in which he’s most comfortable, most at ease, most happy. It will be a sad day for An when the Event thrusts humanity back to the dark ages. Other Players worry about their families, their lines. They mourn the extinction of a species.

  An mourns the extinction of his internet.

  He rubs a lock of Chiyoko’s hair between his thumb and index finger.

  Yes, it is working.

  As soon as An reached his latest base of operations, he locked himself in and set up his security and armed himself with the Takeda katana and a shoulder band of grenades and a Sig 226 and activated his lair’s self-destruct mechanisms and checked his vehicles and made a bowl of rice and had a Coke.

  He got right to work finding the others. He entered his PIN: 30700. There were the two blips—the Olmec, who he knows was with the Cahokian, and one other, probably the Nabataean—that were still in South America. They were on the move, and seemed to be headed toward a showdown. An was able to isolate the IP address Hilal had used to post his encrypted message—a warehouse in an industrial suburb of Las Vegas. After that the Aksumite’s trail went cold.

  That left the Donghu, the Celt, and the Harappan. An assumed all three were still among the living.

  The Donghu remained a complete mystery. Aside from the one poor photo An had dug up, it was as if the boy named Baitsakhan didn’t even exist. He gave up trying to find him.

  He guessed that the Celt was probably behind the attack in Tokyo, but he wasn’t sure where she was now.

  As for Chopra, if what the Aksumite had posted was true, than she was undoubtedly at the coordinate location in India.

  Sitting and waiting and guarding her precious daughter.

  Watching over Sky Key.

  An set his attention on these coordinate points. When he searched the skies for a satellite he might use to get a good look at Sikkim, he was very pleasantly surprised.

  Because for some reason the United States had recently positioned a reconnaissance Spectacle-class satellite over that part of the world. An knew he had no hope of gaining control of it, but he did know how to access its feed. Which means that now An is seeing what Aisling and her team are seeing.

  And what he sees is remarkable.

  An can’t tell who’s who, but he witnesses two groups of humans, five on one side and six on the other, engage in a firefight in a no-man’s-land halfway up the Himalayas’ eastern range. He sees an explosion, and sees two approach one, and watches as the one dispatches the two quickly at close range. Immediately after, there’s a firefight 50 meters to the west and another explosion. The group of six is dead; the other five regroup and move higher into the mountains.

  He sits and watches.

  Rapt.

  He doesn’t want to miss anything.

  An counts seven people guarding the next flashpoint, which is situated at the opening of a steep-walled valley that leads to the exact point revealed by the Aksumite in his coded message.

  And on two other monitors he sees Chiyoko’s tracked blips, now in Bolivia, only a kilometer between them. They do not have one hundredth the detail of the action in India, where he can occasionally make out arms and legs and heads, but they’re still there. And when one—or both!—of these blips dies, Chiyoko’s tracker will register it and tell him.

  What luck.

  He feels like a god.

  He swivels to a small refrigerator and retrieves another can of Coke. Snaps its tab. The hiss of the soda and crack of the seal. He brings the can to his mouth, smells the effervescent sweetness. He sips. His heart rate is so low, he is so calm, he is so happy. He smiles.

  “Chiyoko, we will watch, my love. We will watch them fight.” His smile grows. He pinches her dried eyelids. Holds them up so she can see.

  “Look, love. Look at it. They are going to die.”

  AISLING KOPP, POP KOPP, GREG JORDAN, BRIDGET MCCLOSKEY, GRIFFIN MARRS

  Approaching Harappan Checkpoint Two, at the Mouth of the Valley of Eternal Life, Sikkim, India

  “Hold,” Aisling orders.

  The others stop. In 50 feet the path makes a left turn, bending from almost due west to southwest.

  “What’s up?” Pop asks.

  Aisling adjusts her monocle. The green dots are a little harder to discern this time. “How many you count, Marrs?” She trusts the observational and technical skills of Marrs the most.

  “Seven.”

  “Me too.”

  “No question about it. Three in the central location—probably another machine gun, just like before. Two pairs in flanking positions, the northernmost team pretty far from the machine gun. Maybe at foxholes in the woods.”

  “What’re you thinking?” Jordan asks.

  “That last machine-gun position was vulnerable from the front. It has to be clear enough for them to shoot, after all.”

  “You want to put it right down their gullet, huh?” Pop says.

  “Yep.” She pats the side of her Brügger & Thomet. “Come on, McCloskey.
You can be my spotter.”

  “Just two girls taking a walk in the woods,” McCloskey says, rising to follow Aisling. Jordan and Pop sit tight.

  The two women disappear into the trees and come to a depression surrounded by oak, alder, and a cluster of tall silver firs. The ground is soft. Fallen leaves are black and purple with rot. The wind whispers through the evergreen needles. Aisling unburdens herself of every unnecessary item and makes a neat pile on the ground. McCloskey does the same. They clamber up the side of the depression toward the fir with the thickest trunk. When they reach it, Aisling lies down, props herself on her elbows, shoulders the rifle, throws the bolt, and peers through the scope. McCloskey is on her left. She uses a Leica laser range finder to spot. She fiddles with the dials and sweeps the area slowly, slowly. “I think I got . . . Yeah. Seven-point-three degrees up; heading is two seventy and thirty seconds. I’ll tag it. Your scope should pick it up.”

  Aisling flips down her rifle’s muzzle support and sights the position. At first it just looks like a pile of moss-covered stones, but then she sees it. McCloskey’s target, glowing faintly in her scope, has pinpointed the machine gun. It slowly swings back and forth, sweeping the path, searching. And for one brief second during each sweep, when the gun is pointed more or less at them, Aisling catches a glimpse of flesh and hair.

  “Mark our location for Marrs. I want him in this spot when we move up.”

  McCloskey puts down her range finder and enters something on the soft keypad on her forearm. “Done.”

  “You see that, Marrs?”

  He answers, “Crystal. Over.”

  “Marrs, double-time off the path and take up this position,” Aisling says. “I want you right here on sniper support. I’ll leave my rifle, if that’s all right. I’ll be lighter, and it’ll already be set for you. Over.”

  “Roger that. Already hoofing. ETA is three minutes and twenty seconds. Over.”

  “Pop, Jordan—start your approach from the south flank. Do not engage. Hold when you’re two hundred feet shy. Give me three clicks on the comm when you reach position.”

  “Got it, Ais. We’re moving now.”

  A moment of silence in the woods. Aisling raises her head from the scope and looks around. “Beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

  McCloskey doesn’t look around but says, “It is.”

  “I’ve done a lot of training at altitude, but that was all in Alaska or the Canadian Rockies. This is a whole other ballgame. You ever been here before?”

  “No offense, Aisling, but when I’m staring down huge machine guns that want to kill me, I generally don’t feel like small talk.”

  Aisling puts her eye back to the scope. “Fair enough.” Pause. “It is beautiful out here, though.”

  Aisling isn’t much for small talk either, and she hates herself for even doing it. But she’s doing it for a reason. She’s doing it to avoid what she really wants to say: I hope I get to snipe this little girl too. I hope I can take her life from a distance. I don’t want to do it up close, McCloskey. I don’t know if I’ll be able to.

  Her thoughts are interrupted by Marrs on the comm. “Coming up behind you.” Fifteen seconds later he stops in the depression. “Here,” they hear him say at their backs.

  “Sit tight,” Aisling says over her shoulder.

  “Will do.”

  Aisling asks, “How many dots in the nest, Marrs?”

  “Still three.”

  Maybe we’ll get lucky, Aisling thinks.

  Click. Click. Click.

  “That’s the signal. Ready, McCloskey?”

  “Ready. Eyes on.”

  “Okay. Game time.”

  McCloskey tags the target again. Aisling sees it clearly. She puts her finger on the trigger, applies the slightest pressure.

  The Harappan machine gun sweeps across the path from left to right. She catches the patch of skin and hair. Doesn’t fire. Waits. The gun stops, begins to move back.

  She pushes the air from her lungs. Squeezes so slightly. Just another millimeter and the round will go. She prepares her shoulder for the recoil. Empties her mind. Forgets about the beauty of this place, forgets about the Chopra girl they’re here to kill.

  The patch of skin. The hair. The trigger. The shot. The clap of the hammer, the hiss of the suppressor. The instantaneous spray of blood half a kilometer away. The slumping machine gun.

  Aisling throws the bolt reflexively, readies another round, squeezes, squeezes. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t fire.

  McCloskey blurts, “There! To the—”

  But Aisling has already seen it. Another clap. Another hiss. Another spray of blood as one of the people in the nest did the unthinkable and in their shock and confusion stood for the briefest of moments.

  It was all Aisling needed.

  “Two down!” Aisling says. “Pop, Jordan—go! McCloskey and I will take the northern position.”

  Without saying another word, Aisling spins and slides into the bottom of the depression. McCloskey follows, but she’s not nearly as fast. Aisling flips her HUD monocle into place, snags the SCAR assault rifle, takes off at a dead sprint. Branches lash her face and arms, leaves and grass bunch around her ankles, dirt gets in her boots, rainwater in her eyes. A few seconds later, a response comes from the machine-gun nest: only 11 shots, probably firing blind to flush out Marrs. Two quick suppressed reports of her sniper rifle answer, splitting the damp air.

  Marrs says over the comm, “Missed! But no one’s getting on or off that gun without me hitting them! Get in there!”

  Nine seconds later, Aisling hears Pop and Jordan clash with their enemies. A patter of gunfire rings through the valley. The mute on Pop’s comm flicks off for a moment, and Aisling hears him grunt. He’s either been hit or he’s fallen or he’s fighting them up close and personal.

  She hopes he’s all right.

  She is only 60 feet from her pair of adversaries. She sees them. A woman and a man in a metal blind wedged between two giant birch trees. They’re scanning the trees, but not in her direction.

  She unhooks a smoke grenade and pulls the pin and lobs it toward them. It arcs through the air, already pluming, and hits the ground between them, creating a cloud. Aisling turns hard right, going down a slope, runs 20 feet, turns left toward their position, and kicks her sprint into the highest gear as the ground levels out. They fire through the cloud, at where she used to be.

  They’re doing exactly as they’re supposed to.

  She sees the birches, comes up behind the two Harappan soldiers. The woman catches Aisling in her periphery and spins, prefiring with her M4. Aisling returns a quick burst in full auto. The SCAR is an amazing rifle. Fluid and a little heavy, but almost no recoil. All her shots—a burst of three—hit the target.

  The exposed neck of the Harappan woman.

  Her body is thrown into the metal wall of the blind.

  Aisling drops and slides forward, like a runner going hard into second base, as a burst of bullets zing overhead. She slides into the blind, right next to the man. She overestimated how close the sheet of metal was, and her feet slam into it. The man is quick. He stomps down on Aisling’s rifle, driving the receiver into the ground, pinning her right hand and arm.

  The man swings his own rifle around. As he does, Aisling walks her feet up the metal partition, vaulting into a shoulder stand. Her feet smash into the side of his face before he gets a bead on her, but his gun goes off, and several rounds penetrate the ground less than two feet from her head. Her ears ring. Dirt and rocks are thrown everywhere. Several pieces strafe her face painfully.

  The man stumbles and Aisling pops up. He’s ready, though, kicks her in the arm and knocks the SCAR from her grip. She punches him in the throat and he stumbles. She reaches out, stops him from falling by grabbing his rifle, and wrenches it out of his hands. Before she can bring it around, he kicks again, striking the rifle’s stock. It’s knocked out of Aisling’s hands and clatters against the trunk of one of the birch trees. Aisling r
eaches over her head with both hands to grab the hilt of her sword. But this is another miscalculation. The man lunges and grabs her entire face, his long and powerful fingers wrapping her cheeks, his palm smashing her nose. He throws her against the other tree, her head snaps back, and she’s stunned. He keeps one hand on her face, the heel just under her chin, pushing back and up, fingers digging into the hollows of her cheeks. With his other hand, the man pulls a knife and—

  “HEY!”

  The man’s eyes flick toward the woods.

  And a blast as loud as a cannon. Even though he’s wearing an armored vest, the man’s chest explodes and Aisling is splattered again with blood. He loses his grip on her and falls, dead.

  Panting, Aisling turns to see McCloskey holding up a giant Colt Peacemaker, its barrel trailing a blue wisp of smoke just like in the movies.

  “Thanks,” Aisling says.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Aisling picks up her rifle and moves out of the blind. She readjusts her helmet and the HUD over her right eye.

  “North flank taken,” Aisling says with relief. She raises her eyebrows to McCloskey. The meaning is clear—Aisling got lucky.

  McCloskey shrugs. “We knew we’d need luck today. So far so good.”

  “Southern flank taken,” Jordan says. “Pursuing a lone bogey.”

  As if on cue they hear more gunfire from the south—two bursts from a SCAR and the pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of a pistol being emptied, followed by another burst of rifle fire.

  They hear Pop cry out over the comm. Aisling’s heart skips a beat. “Pop!”

  Pop heaves. “Just . . . in . . . the vest.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. Get that bitch.”

  Aisling and McCloskey angle toward the green dot moving through the woods. They’ll converge with Jordan at the machine-gun nest. As they get closer, Aisling can see there’s still one more Harappan holding that position. He must hear them coming. He pokes his head out, and then there’s another muted report from the 338.