by James Frey
18.095, -94.043889lxix
SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, CHIYOKO TAKEDA, CHRISTOPHER VANDERKAMP
Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, Istanbul, Turkey
Chiyoko takes her hands off the wheel and claps. Claps again. Sarah and Jago each wake with a start, their reflexes buzzing. Christopher still sleeps.
They are in Istanbul.
It’s evening. Chiyoko guides the 307 across the Mehmet Bridge. The black strait is 210 feet below. Boats of all sizes move through the water in the same lanes once used by Minoans, Greeks, Romans, Cypriots, Caucasians, Moors, Israelites, Egyptians, Hittites, Byzantines, and every kind of person from every walk of life that the world has ever seen.
Jago flips a computer terminal out of the back of the passenger seat and searches for hotels. He finds a nice one and punches it into the car’s navigation system. Chiyoko claps once in thanks.
“I’m going to book us into a really nice hotel. Might as well play Endgame in style, right?”
Sarah smiles at Jago. Chiyoko nods in agreement.
Christopher stirs. Rubs his eyes. “How long have I been out?”
“Not long enough, pendejo.”
“Jago,” Sarah scolds.
Jago folds his arms and mumbles something vulgar in Spanish. Sarah, in the passenger seat, turns to face Christopher. “How’s your leg?”
“Numb, but okay. Toes move and everything. We going to a hospital?”
Jago snorts.
“We’d rather not. Let’s have a look at it first.” Sarah runs her hand over the knee, which is still slightly hyperextended. She pushes down. “How’s that feel?”
“Not great, not terrible.” She wiggles the knee from side to side. “And that?”
“She set my shoulder the night we met,” Jago muses, gazing out of his window. “A night I’ll never forget . . .”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“It was explosive,” Jago says, flashing his studded teeth at Christopher. “She is good with her hands, yes?”
“Shut up,” Sarah says, “or I’ll cut yours off.”
Christopher looks from Jago to Sarah, his eyes widening, confused. Sarah shakes her head. “It was nothing like that. We had to jump off a moving train before it blew up.”
“Things blow up around you guys a lot, don’t they?”
“That’s what Endgame is,” Jago says.
“And look at me,” Christopher replies. “Little old rookie right in the middle of it.”
“Right where you shouldn’t be,” Jago says.
Christopher turns to face Jago. The backseat suddenly feels too small. “You got a problem?”
“Yes,” Jago says simply, “you’re a sack of meat, and I don’t want to carry you.”
“Meat? I’d knock your fu—”
“STOP IT!” Sarah shouts.
“I’d kill you before you touched me,” Jago sneers.
If Christopher was thinking straight, he’d remember what happened when he tried to punch Maccabee in the underground chamber. Around Sarah, though, his old high school instincts kick in. He’s not backing down. Christopher starts to move, but Sarah sticks a hand between the two boys in the backseat. “Chiyoko, pull over. Feo, you’re riding up front.”
Chiyoko stops the car, a slight smile on her face. Boys. All the same.
Sarah gets out and opens the rear door. Jago eases onto the sidewalk. “He doesn’t belong here,” Jago whispers as he moves around her.
Sarah gets in back; Jago sits up front. Chiyoko pulls the car into the flow of traffic.
Sarah puts her hand on Christopher’s knee. “I’m sorry. None of this is easy.”
“I heard what he just said,” Christopher complains.
Sarah sighs and says, “And you know what? He’s right. I’ll get you back on your feet, but when I do, you have to go home. Nothing’s changed since the airport in Omaha. You shouldn’t have followed me. You shouldn’t be here.”
Christopher recoils. “I’m not going anywhere, Sarah. I’ve seen this much. I know about these Annunaki, these maker beings, our screwed-up history—I’m going to see the rest. For Christ’s sake, I was on that damn plane crash, did you know that? The one all over the news?”
Jago gives Christopher a mildly impressed look. “You were?”
“Yeah, me and that psycho Kala chick.” Christopher thinks of the murdered mother and daughter. Knows that they will haunt him for the rest of his life. “We were . . . we were the only survivors,” he lies.
Sarah puts her arm around Christopher’s shoulders. Jago faces front, not wanting to see this. “God. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Christopher says unconvincingly.
She squeezes his broad frame. Remembers what it was like to hug him, to be held by him. No one speaks for a while. Sarah asks Chiyoko to stop the car again. They pull in front of a pharmacy.
“I’m going to get some things for that leg, including a pair of crutches,” Sarah says, looking Christopher in the eye. “That you are going to use to take your ass home.”
“Whatever,” Christopher says as Sarah climbs out and closes the door behind her.
An awkward silence descends in the car.
“Do you talk?” Christopher finally asks Chiyoko.
She shakes her head.
“Oh, that’s cool. I never thanked you for rescuing me from those two kids, so, thank you. They were bad news.”
Chiyoko bows slightly.
“Speaking of that—since you were in that big gold room spying on us, why didn’t you help? You know, before the little one stabbed Kala, before they kidnapped me?”
Chiyoko’s eyes shift but she is otherwise motionless.
“Fine, don’t answer,” Christopher mutters. “You Players are all the same. Out of your minds.”
Jago turns to the backseat, looks at Christopher, smiles, the diamonds in his teeth throwing off a sinister light. “This is Endgame, bitch. Best get used to it.”
AISLING KOPP
Lago Beluiso, Lombardy, Italy
Aisling’s eyes are closed, as they have been for the last five hours, 23 minutes, and 29.797 seconds. Her back is straight. Her legs in half lotus. Her fingers laced in her lap. She sits before the cave painting of the beautiful woman she’s started referring to as the Mu, adrift on an open sea, the disk in her hands, death all around her.
Aisling waits for the painting to whisper its secrets. For her clue to unfold some new and immense knowledge within her brain. For something—anything—to happen. She sighs and opens her eyes.
Nothing is happening.
“This is bullshit,” she says, her voice echoing through the cave. It’s strange to hear the sound of her voice, dry and scratchy. Isn’t talking to yourself one of the first signs of dementia? She flops down on her back and grabs her satellite phone out of her pack, calls her grandfather. It was on his advice she climbed all the way up here, his fault she’s doing nothing when she should be out there Playing. He answers on the 3rd ring, his voice riddled with static.
“Now what?” she says, by way of greeting.
“Hello, Aisling,” he replies, a smile in his voice. “How’s it going?”
“How long am I supposed to stay here, Pop?” she complains. “It’s been days and I’m no closer to figuring this thing out. If there’s even anything to figure out. Maybe you misinterpreted my clue.”
“I doubt it,” her grandfather replies grimly. “Tell me what you see.”
“Paintings. Old-ass paintings. One is a weird-looking lady on a boat, floating around after—well—it looks like the world has ended, ya know?”
“And what else?”
Aisling glances to the other painting. “Twelve people gathered at—”
Aisling slaps her forehead. For the first time, she recognizes the stone monoliths that surround the 12. She feels like an idiot, should’ve recognized it sooner. It’s blurry, and rotated, and missing some pieces, but it’s the same place she’s studied and visited. It is a plac
e sacred to her line.
“—gathered at Stonehenge,” she finishes, glad Pop isn’t there to see her slip up.
“Hmm,” he says. “One of our places.”
Most consider Stonehenge to be a burial ground, a healing station, a temple.
It was these things.
But more.
Much more.
Aisling has had the astronomical significance of Stonehenge drilled into her since she was a child. The Heel Stone—a rough-hewn 35-ton monolith that lies 256 feet northeast of the ruin’s center—marks the exact point on the horizon where the sun rises on the summer solstice. Other parts mark the winter solstice, sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets; parts that have been destroyed predicted solar eclipses. Which means, to those who want to understand, who want to believe, that whoever built the turn of massive rocks understood not only that Earth was spherical but also that it had a place in the known universe.
All of this circa 3000 BCE.
A simple circle of stone, but it symbolizes so much.
Aisling stifles a yawn.
“What are they doing at Stonehenge?” Pop asks.
“Screaming, mostly,” Aisling replies. “There’s a Dia coming down from space ahead of a fireball. Most of the twelve look freaked out. Except for one—the same lady from the boat—she’s fitting a stone into some altar.”
Her grandfather is quiet, mulling this over. Aisling stands up and goes to the pictograph, runs her fingers across the rough wall, touching the fireball that careens down from space.
“It’s pretty morbid,” she says.
“Aisling,” her grandfather begins hesitantly, “what if you have the order wrong?”
“What order?” she asks, stepping back from the painting, taking it all in.
“You said that the Dia comes with its fire, and then the woman uses the altar.”
“Uh-huh,” Aisling says, patting her pockets for a stick of gum. “So?”
“What if the woman uses the altar, and then the fire comes?”
Aisling freezes, a stick of spearmint halfway to her lips. She looks at the chaos of the first pictograph, then turns her head, looking at the desolation of the second. The lone woman with her disk.
“She won,” whispers Aisling. “And she’s alone.”
She whips her head back to the first painting. Stonehenge. The altar. The stone disk. The Mu.
“Aisling? Are you still there?”
“It’s a cycle,” Aisling replies, thinking of the words her long-dead father used before he went mad. “We’re all part of an endless cycle.”
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
Church of the Covenant, Kingdom of Aksum, Northern Ethiopia
“I know I am right,” Hilal says. Hilal takes Eben’s hands. The old master looks wary, but his protégé is enthused.
“But why? Why do we have our traditions, and our knowledge, and our secrets, if what you say is true?”
“Because it is a game.” Hilal takes his hands away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or, perhaps, it’s a test. A game within a game. A way to prove not just the worthiness of our line, but of all humanity.”
“Slow down,” Eben cautions. “These are dangerous thoughts.”
“True thoughts,” Hilal insists. “Certainties.”
Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan asks wearily, “But why would the being give you this clue?”
Hilal has wondered this himself. He meditated long on the circle that kepler 22b forced into his brain. Hilal believes he understands it, but he can only guess at the being’s true motivation. So he guesses.
“It was a mistake. It has to be. A circle has so many meanings. Too many. But paired with his words, it comes into focus. He said it. The Event is part of Endgame. The reason for it. The beginning, middle, and end!”
Eben strokes his chin. “I don’t know.”
“Or it wasn’t a mistake!” Hilal shouts, his mind on overdrive. He knows he is right, feels it in his gut, like faith, and he must convince Eben. “Perhaps he wanted one of us to figure it out.”
There’s a spark in Eben’s eyes: long-held ideas being reconsidered. He says, “Or perhaps they are testing your worthiness. This is a parable of sorts—we kill, therefore we must be killed.”
“If that is so, Master Eben, I must tell the others.”
Eben cocks his head. His dark skin is weathered. His brilliant blue eyes are troubled. “This is unexpected.”
“Of course it is. The future is unwritten. The being meant something else—that anything is possible. Our very history—that we have been visited, altered, taught by the beings for millennia—would suggest that anything is possible. Master, I must warn the others!”
“If you are wrong, you will be playing from behind. They will have advantages that you don’t, ideas, alliances, ancient objects, Earth Key.”
“But if I am right, it won’t matter. The future is unwritten.”
“Perhaps.”
Hilal shakes his master’s arms. Peers deeply into his eyes. Hilal is full of love and life. The Coptic cross that is tattooed over his chest and stomach hums with electricity. “Fathers Christ and Mohammed would agree. Uncle Moses. Grandfather Buddha. All of them would say it is worth a try. For love, Master Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan, for love.”
The wizened ex-Player takes one of his hands and places it lightly on Hilal’s eyes. They close.
“Why do we believe in these figures—the Christ, Mohammed, Buddha—when we have seen the true forces that shape life and knowledge?” Eben asks his young Player this question not for the first time. It is a familiar refrain amongst their line. A powerful one.
“Because,” Hilal answers, “we believe that one person can make a difference.”
The sun wobbles 11.187 cm and peels off a flare of historic magnitude. It explodes into the void with the power of 200,000,000,000 megatons of TNT. The CME is so massive and intense and fast that it will reach Earth in only nine hours and 34 minutes.
MACCABEE ADLAI, BAITSAKHAN
Sürmeli Hotel, Suite 101, Ankara, Turkey
Maccabee can’t sleep. He’s spread out on a couch just big enough for his body. He rolls onto his side and looks over to the bed where young, brash, murderous, vengeful Baitsakhan is curled up.
Asleep.
With a smile on his face.
They’re sharing a hotel suite in Ankara. They disagreed about the best way to celebrate their acquisition of Earth Key. Maccabee wanted women; Baitsakhan would only agree if he could kill them when they were done. Maccabee wanted a drink; Baitsakhan insisted he would never touch the stuff. Maccabee wanted to see the city; Baitsakhan hates any city but Ulaanbaatar.
So they bought an XboxOne and played Call of Duty: Ghosts until their eyes fell out. Maccabee got killed more than Baitsakhan, which is why he’s stuck on the couch. He looks at the scar on his hand, the scar caused when he made a blood bond with the boy. He knew it was a lie. He knew Baitsakhan was lying, too. He runs his fingers along the grip of his pistol. He could take the pillow and hold it up and shoot the boy and that would be it. He could take Earth Key and Play on.
He could.
The sleeping boy snorts.
Grins.
His brother just died. He should be mourning. What is wrong with him?
Maccabee picks up the gun with one hand, the pillow with the other. Puts the barrel into the face of the pillow. He flips the safety, puts some pressure on the trigger. The pillow will muffle the sound. Allow him to work in silence.
Baitsakhan screams. Maccabee jumps. The gun does not go off. He lets the pillow fall on top of it as Baitsakhan scrambles with the sheets, as if they are suddenly infested with snakes and rats and scorpions.
“You all right, Baitsakhan?”
The boy yells and works his hands into his clothing, pulls out the orb, which is white-hot and glowing. He juggles it as if it is 1,000 degrees, throws it across the room. Maccabee reaches out, catches it, and the light inside dims. It is not hot at all. If anything,
it is slightly cool. Baitsakhan looks around as if there are more creepy-crawly things coming for him. Finally his eyes settle on Maccabee. “How are you holding that?”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“It was burning me.” The young Player holds out his hands. They’re red, blisters already forming.
“It’s not burning me.” Maccabee gives the orb a good look, turns it in his hand. “I think there’s a message here.”
Baitsakhan stands. “Where?”
“Here.”
The Donghu crosses the room. “I told you it was Earth Key.”
“I don’t dispute it, brother,” Maccabee says.
“It is only a matter of time until kepler 22b confirms it.”
“Maybe it’s doing that right now. Look.”
Baitsakhan peers into the orb. Reaches out a finger and touches it. His skin sizzles and he recoils. “Ack!”
“I’ll hold it, brother. Don’t worry.”
Baitsakhan leans forward tentatively, looks. First there is a symbol.
Then a face.
“The Aksumite!” the two say together.
The map of the world swirls into view, and zooms in, and in, and in. They are looking at rural Ethiopia. For a brief second, a point of light is illuminated, as if there’s a star inside the orb. It vanishes; Maccabee looks at Baitsakhan; Baitsakhan looks at Maccabee.
At the same time, they smile. “Time to Play.”
SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, CHIYOKO TAKEDA, CHRISTOPHER VANDERKAMP
Millennial Residence Hotel, Istanbul, Turkey
Sarah realigns Christopher’s dislocated knee back in the car before checking into a four-star hotel on the European side of Istanbul. They each get their own room. She needs some space, if only for a night. Christopher is sturdy on the crutches, and a cortisone shot would probably do him wonders, but Sarah doesn’t want to give him any more reasons to stay, so she doesn’t bring it up.
As they make their way to the elevators, crossing the hotel’s bustling lobby and looking like rock stars who have been partying too hard, Christopher quietly asks, “Sarah, can I talk to you?”