by James Frey
While the sudden appearance of an NEA as large as CK46B is disturbing, it is the purpose of this release to assuage fears of a larger impact in the future. Impacts like these—especially like those that occurred in Warsaw, Poland; Jodhpur, India; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; and Forest Hills, Queens, New York, USA—are exceedingly rare. Through joint efforts of our agencies, plus those of the ISA, JAXA, UKSA, and AEB, you can be assured that other NEAs and Near Earth Objects (NEOs) are identified and tracked on a regular basis and that at this time it is our consensus opinion that our planet is in no danger whatsoever of being struck by anything larger than the meteorites mentioned above.
Finally, it is also our opinion that the shower propagated by CK46B is complete and that no additional meteors can be expected. CK46B has been charted and it is not due to reappear in our vicinity for another 403.56 years. For now, the possible danger posed by this NEA is considered past. Any further information—
“Excuse me,” a man says in Polish as he knocks into Maccabee, yanking the cord of his headphones from his ears.
“I should say so,” Maccabee says in perfect English with equal parts confidence and annoyance.
“You speak the English?” the man asks, also in English, dropping heavily into his window seat. He is 40 or so, sweating, overweight.
“Yes,” Maccabee says. He glances across the aisle. A very pretty woman in a form-fitting dark suit rolls her green bespectacled eyes. Maccabee returns the gesture.
“Then I will speak the English too,” the man announces. “I will practice. Yes? Onto you?”
“Practice with me,” Maccabee corrects, winding the cord of his headphones around his hand.
“Yes. With you.” The man manages to shove his valise under the seat in front of him. He struggles to find his seat belt, pulling hard at the buckled end, which does not move.
“You have to let out the buckle. Like this.” Maccabee unfastens his seat belt and shows the man how it works.
“Ah, how silly of me,” the man says in Polish.
“They should do away with them, in my opinion,” Maccabee says, still speaking English and clicking his back together. “If the plane crashes, this is not going to help anyone.”
“I agree,” the pretty woman says in English, her eyes remaining on the magazine she’s browsing.
The man leans past Maccabee, eyes the woman. “Aha. There hello.” He’s back to English.
Maccabee leans forward to intercept the man’s prying eyes. “It’s ‘Hello, there.’ And she wasn’t talking to you.”
The man recoils. “Gentle, young one. She is the pretty woman. She knows it. I just let her know I know it too. What is wrong by that?”
“It’s rude.”
The man waves his hand dismissively. “Ah! Rude! A good English word! I like. It is meaning ‘not nice,’ no? What is it . . . ‘unpolite’?”
“Impolite,” the woman answers. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”
“There. See? You have the nice suit, but me, I have the . . . the . . . experience.” This last word is in Polish.
“Experience,” Maccabee translates.
The man jabs a finger into Maccabee’s shoulder. “Yes, experience.”
Maccabee looks at the man’s finger, still pushed into his shoulder. Maccabee is being underestimated, which is the way he likes it. “Don’t do that,” Maccabee says calmly.
The man jabs him again. “What, this?”
As Maccabee prepares to respond, a flight attendant appears and asks in Polish, “Is there anything wrong?”
“Ah, another one,” the man says, his eyes just as greedy for the attendant. She is also pretty. “Yes, there is something wrong, as a matter of fact.” The man animatedly drops his tray table in front of him and taps it. “I haven’t got my drink yet.”
The attendant joins her hands in front of her. “What would you like, Mr. Duda?”
The woman across the aisle chuckles at the appropriateness of his name—which usually means “booby”—but Duda doesn’t hear.
“Two champagnes and two Stolichnayas. All in sealed bottles. Two glasses. No ice.”
The attendant doesn’t even bristle. She works for Aeroflot and has seen her share of drunks. She nods at Maccabee. “And for you, Mr. Adlai?”
“Orange juice, please. In a glass with ice.”
“Adlai, hm? You a Jew?” Duda asks in Polish.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Maccabee says, turning in his seat.
“Figures. Explains all the finery.” Duda’s eyes dart up and down Maccabee’s shirt. “Also explains the scent you exude.” Duda is staying with Polish, probably for the same reason Maccabee chooses English.
The attendant returns and bends over, holding a tray, and gravity and pressure part the divide of her collared shirt.
Maccabee takes his orange juice as Duda winks, grabs his drinks, and whispers, “Bend over a little more next time and I’ll give you a nice tip.”
The attendant smiles and straightens. “We don’t accept tips, Mr. Duda.”
“Pity,” Duda says, as he cracks the two Stolichnayas and pours one into each glass.
She turns and walks away.
Duda leans forward and reaches over Maccabee. “How about you?” he asks the woman across from them. “Would you accept a tip from me in exchange of services?”
“That’s enough,” Maccabee says, as his heart starts to beat faster, moving from a resting rate of 41 to a heightened rate of 77. “If you speak again, you’ll regret it.”
Duda downs one of the vodkas and says quietly so only they can hear, “Oh, little boy. I see you dressed like a man, but you don’t fool me.”
Maccabee takes a deep breath and slows his heart rate, as he has been trained to do. Killing, if it becomes necessary, is best done in a calm manner, and with smooth, easy movements. He did it for the first time at age 10, and has done it 44 more times in the years since.
The man leans into his seat, drinks the other vodka and both champagnes. He rolls toward the window and closes his eyes.
The plane taxis, takes off, reaches cruising altitude. The pretty woman minds her business. And for a while Maccabee does too.
After about an hour, though, he leans across the aisle and says in English, “I’m sorry about all that, Miss . . .”
She smiles. “Miss Pawlek.” He can tell that she thinks he is at least 22 or 23. Most people do, especially young women.
“Miss Pawlek.”
“Why should you be sorry? You behaved perfectly.”
“I wanted to punch him.”
“We’re on a plane. You can’t.”
They start to talk. Maccabee quickly realizes that she is tired of talking about the meteorite that has scarred Warsaw, or the 11 others that have rattled the world. It’s all anyone has been able to talk or think about for a week, so he lets it lie.
Instead, Maccabee practices a subtle form of interrogation on her. He has been trained to use techniques that reveal sensitive information from people without their knowing. She is from Goleniów, a medieval capital near the German border. She works for an internet investing firm. She is meeting a client in Moscow. Her mother is dead. Her brother is an accountant in Krakow. She likes Italian opera and watches the Tour de France every year on TV. She has been to L’Alpe d’Huez. She has been in love once, when she was 19, and hopes, she says with a smile, to fall in love again.
Maccabee doesn’t say anything truthful about himself, except that he is on a business trip that will take him all the way to Beijing. Miss Pawlek has never been there. One day she would like to go.
They order a round of drinks, Maccabee opting for a ginger ale. As they toast, they don’t realize that Duda is awake and watching them.
“Moving in on my action, eh?” he announces without lifting his head from his pillow. Duda points at Miss Pawlek, amused. “You should leave this boy alone. Women like you need a real man.”
“You’re a pig,” she replies with a sneer.
“
That’s not what you’re going to be saying later,” Duda says, smiling.
The plane jerks. It is flying at 31,565 feet. The wind is coming from the north-northwest at 221 mph. The fasten seat belt light comes on. It’s rough enough that 167 of the 176 passengers grip their armrests, 140 of them look at the person next to them for reassurance. Eighteen start praying silently. The meteorite has put the idea of horrific, sudden death at the front of everyone’s mind.
Maccabee doesn’t mind the turbulence. To quote one of his favorite books: Fear is the mind-killer. He has practiced besting fear over and over and over again. He has practiced being cold and calculated and efficient. And while Duda is essentially harmless, it never hurts to continue to practice.
He leans close to Duda, pushing a small button on the palm side of his pinkie ring, revealing a short silver needle in the center of the stone flower.
“If you speak to me again, or to anyone on this flight—”
The plane jumps again. The wind speed has increased to 231 mph. More passengers whimper in fear; more begin to pray.
“Don’t threaten me, you little—” Duda says, but Maccabee, with his heart rate back at 41, and quickly enough so that no one sees, strikes the exposed flesh of Duda’s neck with the needle.
“What did you . . .” Duda says.
“You should have listened,” Maccabee says quietly, coldly, with a smile. Duda knows what’s happened but is unsure if it’s sleep or death that’s coming for him.
Duda cannot speak to ask.
Duda can no longer move.
Duda’s eyes fill with confusion and terror.
The plane slides hard from side to side. The wind is gusting faster. People are not quiet about their praying now. They are calling out to God. Maccabee lets his heart rate rise.
A baby in coach class starts crying.
As Duda’s eyes roll into his head, Maccabee props a pillow against the window and pushes Duda into it. He runs his fingers over Duda’s eyelids. He puts the man’s hands in his lap, one over the other.
Maccabee settles back into his seat. He has met so many strange people in his life. He wonders who he will meet when he arrives in China.
Six minutes later the turbulence ends. Miss Pawlek looks over at him, smiles. Her brow glistens with a nervous sweat; her cheeks are flushed. Maccabee likes the way she looks in that moment: the relief mixed with something else.
Miss Pawlek inclines her head at Duda. “What happened to our friend?”
“Closed his eyes and went to sleep,” Maccabee answers. “Some people can sleep through anything.”
She nods. The green of her irises is captivating. “That was pretty rough turbulence, wasn’t it?”
Maccabee turns his head from her, looks at the back of the seat in front of him. “Yes it was. But it’s over now.”
52.294888, 20.950928xxxii 7,459 dead; $1.342B damages
26.297592, 73.019128xxxiii 15,321 dead; $2.12B damages
40.714411, -73.864689xxxiv 4,416 dead; $748.884M damages
9.022736, 38.746799xxxv 18,888 dead; $1.33B damages
-15.49918, -70.135223xxxvi 10,589 dead; $1.45B damages
40.987608, 29.036951xxxvii 39,728 dead; $999.24M damages
-34.602976, 135.42778xxxviii 14 dead; $124.39M damages
34.239666, 108.941631xxxix 3,598 dead; $348.39M damages
24.175582, 55.737065xl 432 dead; $228.33M damages
41.265679, -96.431637xli 408 dead; $89.23M damages
26.226295, 127.674179xlii 1,473 dead; $584.03M damages
46.008409, 107.836304xliii 0 dead; $0 damages
SARAH ALOPAY
Gretchen’s Goods Café and Bakery, Frontier Airlines Lobby, Eppley Airfield, Omaha, Nebraska, United States
Sarah sits with Christopher at a small plastic table, an untouched blueberry muffin between them. They hold hands, touch knees, and try to act like this isn’t the strangest day of their young lives. Sarah’s parents are 30 feet away at another table, watching their daughter warily. They’re worried what she might say to Christopher, and what the boy—a boy they’ve always treated like a son—will do. Their actual son, Sarah’s brother, Tate, is in a funeral home, awaiting cremation. Everyone keeps saying there will be time to grieve for Tate later, but that may not be true.
In 57 minutes Sarah is getting on a plane that will take her from Omaha to Denver, from Denver to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Seoul, from Seoul to Beijing.
She does not have a return ticket.
“So you have to leave to play this game?” Christopher asks for what feels to Sarah like the 17th time.
Sarah is patient. It isn’t easy to understand her secret life. For a long time, she dreamed of telling Christopher about Endgame; she just never thought she would actually have to. But now she feels relieved to finally be honest with him. For this reason it doesn’t matter if he keeps asking the same questions over and over. These are her last moments with him, and she’ll treasure them even if he’s being obstinate.
“Yes,” Sarah replies. “Endgame. The world is not supposed to know about it, or about people like me.”
“The Players.”
“Yes, the Players. The councils. The secret lines of humanity . . .” She trails off.
“Why can’t the world know?”
“Because no one would be able to live a normal life if they knew Endgame was hanging over them,” Sarah says, feeling a pang of sadness for her own “normal life” that went up in smoke just days ago.
“You have a normal life,” Christopher insists.
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, right,” Christopher says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve killed wolves and survived on your own in Alaska and are trained in all kinds of karate and crap. Because you’re a Player. How did you ever manage to squeeze in soccer practice?”
“It was a pretty packed schedule,” Sarah answers wryly. “Especially for the last three years, you know, because Tate was supposed to be the Player, not me.”
“But he lost his eye.”
“Exactly.”
“How did he lose it, by the way? None of you ever told me that,” Christopher says.
“It was a pain trial. Withstand the stings of a thousand bees. Unfortunately, one got him right in the pupil, and he had a bad reaction, and he lost the eye. The council declared him ineligible and said that I was in. Yeah, that definitely made my schedule a bit crazy.”
Christopher stares at her like she’s lost it. “You know, I’d think this was a sick joke if your parents weren’t here. If that meteor hadn’t hit and Tate hadn’t . . . Sorry, it’s just a lot to take in.”
“I know.”
“You’re basically in a death cult.”
Sarah purses her lips, her patience slipping. She expected Christopher to be supportive; at least that’s how it went when she imagined this conversation. “It’s not a death cult. It’s not something I chose to do. And I never wanted to lie to you, Christopher.”
“Whatever,” Christopher says, his eyes lighting up as if he’s just come to a decision. “How do I sign up?”
“For what?”
“Endgame. I want to be on your team.”
Sarah smiles. It’s a sweet thought. Sweet and impossible. “It’s not like that. There aren’t teams. The others—all eleven of them—won’t be bringing teammates to the Calling.”
“The others. Players, like you?”
“Yeah,” Sarah says. “Descendants of the world’s first civilizations, none of which exist anymore. Each of us represents a line of the world’s population, and we play for the survival of that line.”
“What’s your line called?”
“Cahokian.”
“So, like, Native American. I think there’s a little Algonquian on my dad’s side. Does that mean I’m part of your line?”
“It should,” Sarah answers. “Most people in North America have some Cahokian blood, even if they don’t realize it.”
Christopher thumbs his chin. Sarah
knows all of Christopher’s tics, so she knows that this means he’s about to make an argument, he’s just not quite sure how to phrase it. There are 52 minutes left before her flight leaves. She waits patiently, although she’s starting to worry that this is how they’ll spend their last hour together. She was hoping to give her parents the slip, find a secluded gate, and make out one last time.
“Okay,” says Christopher, clearing his throat. “So you’ve got twelve ancient tribes abiding by these weird rules and waiting for some sign. And that’s how you’ve chosen to interpret the meteor that, admittedly, is a pretty fucked-up and crazy coincidence. But what if that’s what this is? Just a coincidence and you’re like a hot, brainwashed, alleged killing machine only because of some dumb prophecy that doesn’t really exist.”
Christopher catches his breath. Sarah stares at him, smiling sadly.
“It’s for real, Christopher.”
“How do you know? I mean, is there some kind of commissioner who runs this game? Like the NFL?”
“Them.”
Christopher dips his chin. “Them?”
“They have lots of names,” Sarah says, not meaning to sound so cryptic. She’s having trouble putting the next part into reasonable-sounding words.
“Give me one,” Christopher says.
“Cahokians call them the Sky People.”
“The Sky People?”
“Yes.” Sarah holds up a hand before he can interrupt. “Listen—you know how every culture around the world believes that their god or gods or higher power or source of enlightenment, whatever you want to call it, comes from above?”
Christopher shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know.”
“They’re right. God, or the gods, or the higher power, whatever and whoever it is, did come from above. They descended from the sky amid smoke and fire and created us and gave us rules to live by and left. All of the world’s gods and myths are just variations of the same legends, variations of the same story, the same history.”