by James Frey
Life or death?
She can’t get a bead on the girl from this angle, but she can see the boy. One of the skinnier ones. Jago Tlaloc? Or the Shang? It’s hard to tell. If it’s the Olmec boy, he didn’t seem too bad. Unlike the Shang, Jago didn’t blow anyone up during the Calling. The Shang, on the other hand, he deserves to die. She touches the trigger, feeling the coil taut beneath her finger. Aisling squints. “Come on,” she mutters. “Turn around. Let me see your beautiful face. . . .”
Sarah emerges from the cave behind Jago. She glances over her shoulder at the cliff rising behind the trees. A glint on the lower half of the rock—a scope.
“Run!” Sarah shouts. “Run for the trees!”
Jago doesn’t need to ask why; he trusts her, and he moves immediately. Sarah runs too, aiming over her shoulder with her pistol, firing toward the cliff.
A chunk of rock explodes next to Aisling’s shoulder. She flinches. Cover fire so they can get to the safety of the woods. Aisling should’ve taken the two of them out when she had a chance. Unless . . .
How would I react if I saw a sniper rifle aimed at me? Aisling wonders.
It’s all a cycle, she hears her father say. Which means that maybe it can be broken.
Aisling fires a shot into the air. She wants to get their attention. She lets the gun down from her cheek.
“I am Aisling Kopp, La Tène of the 3rd line. Whoever you are, listen!”
Sarah and Jago hunker down behind a thick tree. They crane their necks, trying to get a look at their assailant, but they can’t see the cliff face anymore.
“She can’t see us,” Jago says.
“Do you have the disk?” Aisling shouts, her voice desperate.
Sarah frowns at Jago. “How does she know about that? She couldn’t have seen you take it at the Calling.”
“Listen, if you have it, and you know what to do with it, do not use it!”
“She’s bullshitting,” Jago says. “Just trying to prevent us from getting Earth Key.”
“I repeat, DO NOT USE THE DISK!”
Sarah whispers, “Screw her. Let’s get out of here.”
Jago dips his chin in agreement.
“If you have it, don’t go to England. It wi—”
But Aisling’s voice is drowned out by the guttural echo of the Bush Hawk’s engine jumping to life.
“Chris heard the shots,” Sarah says.
Jago stands and turns his back on the clearing. “We need to get out of here and intercept Chiyoko.” He moves furtively down the steep slope.
Sarah follows, glancing only once over her shoulder. She can still hear the Player on the cliff yelling, but she can’t make out the words. Something bothers her about what just happened, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.
Aisling continues to shout, but the unseen plane’s engine is too loud, and Aisling’s voice is out of range. She angrily slaps the side of the cliff and flails in her harness. They wouldn’t hear her out and she didn’t shoot them. Not her most productive day.
The heavy rifle languishes in front of her. Aisling looks at it as if she just noticed it. “Well,” she says, “there’s still time.”
She pulls it to her shoulder. Raises it, slides the bolt, chambering a round. The lake stretches out below her. The sound of the engine roars. They’ll have to rise in order to escape. Easy pickings.
“I tried talking,” she says to herself. “Now let’s try this other thing.”
Christopher is relieved to see Sarah, and disappointed to see Jago, emerge from the woods. They splash into the water and clamber onto the plane.
“What happened out there?”
“We got shot at,” Jago says.
“Sounded like a big gun.”
“Get us out of here,” Sarah says. “We got what we came for.”
“Cool,” says Christopher, not bothering to ask what new piece of alien mythology they dug up this time. They put on the headphones and mics and Christopher grabs the control stick and moves the plane around, lets out the throttle.
“Stay low and behind the trees for as long as possible!” Sarah says into her mouthpiece.
Christopher punches the throttle and the plane lifts into the air. He holds the craft close to the water’s surface until they reach the edge of the lake.
“Here we go!” He pulls back hard and they move up, up, up.
Aisling pushes her eye to the scope.
There you are.
Breathe.
Fire.
Bolt.
Repeat.
A port-side window blows out as a round tears through the fuselage. Christopher jogs the wheel, and the plane waves back and forth. Sparks fly off the prop as another round grazes it.
“You got this?” Sarah asks, turning pale, grasping Christopher’s arm.
“I got this,” he says, teeth gritted. He’s not going to be in another plane crash. He banks hard left.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jago screams. The mountain is right in front of them like a wall.
“Closing the damn gap.”
Jago scans the cliff face and sees a muzzle flash. A round tears through the port wing.
Christopher pushes the throttle harder.
“Pull up, pull up, pull up!” Sarah yells.
Aisling abandons the scope and fires at will.
She fires her 5th shot.
Wing again.
One hundred meters and closing.
6th.
Pontoon.
7th.
Blade.
8th.
Fuselage.
It’s overhead and screaming up the mountain as she fires her 9th shot. The plane growls and strains. Droplets of gas spray.
The plane disappears over the mountains to the west.
Aisling smiles.
You won’t get far.
CHIYOKO TAKEDA
Malpensa International Airport, Milan, Italy
At the Milan airport, on her way to Heathrow, Chiyoko composes an email.
Dearest An,
I am en route to Stonehenge. I will soon have Earth Key. I will have won the first round. Before I Play on I will come to you, dearest. I will give you more of me. I will.
Yours until the End,
C.
She hits send.
She’ll soon be winning.
She’ll soon be there.
She’ll soon be with him.
Soon.
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
Church of the Covenant, Kingdom of Aksum, Northern Ethiopia
“They can’t, they can’t, they can’t.” Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt’s voice is weak and muffled, delirious.
“Hush now. Be calm, Hilal.” Eben is by his side, on a stool, working over a surgeon’s stainless-steel table. A small pewter Christ watches them from the wall.
“We would know.” Hilal is covered in burns. His arms, face, chest, and head are loosely wrapped in gauze.
“They can’t have it. We would know.”
“Yes, Hilal. Hush now.”
“I could be . . . I could be . . . I could be wrong. . . .” He fades out. Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan ties off Hilal’s good arm. Grabs his wrist and turns it, taps the inside of his elbow. Hilal jolts back to consciousness. “I could be wrong!”
“Peace, Player.” Eben takes a needle from the table, primes it, pushes a finger against a plump vein, lays the cold steel on the skin, pulls the plunger, pushes it slowly in.
“I could be wrong,” Hilal says. “The Event could be inevitable; it could be . . .” He trails off, fades again. Eben pulls the needle free and applies pressure. The pulse is still good. His respiration normalizes; there is no pain. Eben looks at the Christ. The lamplight flickers. The power is still gone. The generators still dormant. But he has spoken with someone on a hand-crank radio, learned that a solar flare knocked everything out, but only in northern Ethiopia.
He prays.
Because what out there can direct a solar flare? And how would it know w
hat Hilal was attempting to do?
He prays more.
Grits his teeth.
The beings are not supposed to meddle.
AN LIU
Liu Residence, 6 Jinbao Street, Apartment 66, Beijing, China
An Liu reads Chiyoko’s email 134 times.
His body can’t stop
SHIVERblinkblink-SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER
SHIVERblink-SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER-SHIVER
BlinkSHIVERblinkblink-blink-blinkSHIVER-blinkblinkblinkSHIVER-blink
SHIVERSHIVER-blink
can’t stop shaking.
He crawls across his Beijing safe house to her remnants on the soft red cloth. It takes him 22 minutes to travel 78 feet. It has never been this bad. Never.
BlinkSHIVERSHIVERblink-blinkSHIVERblinkblink-blink-blinkSHIVER-blinkblinkblink-blink.
He touches her lock of hair, and his body still trembles but not as badly.
He won’t blinkblink won’t wait.
After he set off the dirty bomb in SHIVERblink in Xi’an, his homeland is too hot anyway.
He blink will go.
Blinkblink he will take his toys SHIVER and go to his love.
He will change the way he Plays.
And when he finds her, stands in her presence, stillness.
SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, CHRISTOPHER VANDERKAMP
Malpensa International Airport, Milan, Italy
One of Aisling’s shots nicked the Bush Hawk’s gas line and they had to make an emergency landing in another lake, 17 km to the west. They abandoned the Bush Hawk and hiked into the tiny town of Bondione and stole an old Fiat. Since touching down on the lake it has taken them five hours and 17 minutes to reach the airport.
Too long.
Sarah navigates the Fiat into the covered lot north of the terminal and winds up the ramp. The trio is silent. They are frayed, exhausted, filthy.
They pass car after car. The vehicles belong to people. People on trips. People working. People vacationing. People living their lives.
Not thinking that it’s all going to end.
Sarah slams the brakes.
“Damn it!”
“What?” snaps Jago, peering around for snipers.
She points.
“The Peugeot!”
She pulls into an empty spot next to their old car. The big flower on the hood seems to mock them. Sarah says, “At least we know Chiyoko was here.”
“And we know she’s got a big head start,” Jago adds.
Thinking of the plane crash he and Kala had to endure, plus the emergency landing of the Bush Hawk, Christopher says, “Maybe this is a sign that we should drive.”
Sarah kills the engine. “No. This means we have to fly. We’ve gotta catch up.”
“She’ll get Earth Key as soon as she can,” Jago adds. “We have to be there when she does.”
Christopher folds his arms. “All right,” he says, disappointed.
Jago turns in his seat. “You could drive. We’ll meet you there.”
Sarah snickers, in spite of herself. Christopher frowns, but tries not to take it personally. He’s decided to endure Jago until Sarah gets tired of him. He’s sure that, eventually, she’ll get tired of him.
“Screw you, Tlaloc,” Christopher says. “I haven’t left yet, and I’m not going to now.”
Jago opens his door. “Too bad.”
They get out and check the 307, digging the spare key out of a secret compartment behind the rear bumper. They open it up; everything is still in place. The guns, the computers, their clothing, personal items. Their various passports and visas, their extra credit cards. The med kit, including five preprepped shots of cortisone. Sarah injects two into Chris’s lame knee. He winces but feels better immediately. He leaves a crutch in the car, opting for only one. They clean up, pack their carry-on bags.
“What should we do about guns?” Sarah asks.
“You can’t bring them on a plane,” Christopher says.
“You figure that out all by yourself?” Jago asks.
“Screw you.”
“Kidding, amigo.” Jago opens a case and produces a small semiautomatic pistol unlike any Christopher has ever seen. It is white with a matte finish. “We can bring these on a plane,” Jago says proudly.
“Ah, I forgot about those,” Sarah says reverently.
“What the hell are they?” Christopher asks.
“Ceramic and graphene-polymer plastic pistols,” Jago says, turning one in his hand. “Everything down to the ammo is nonmetallic. Completely invisible to imaging equipment.”
“What—you’re just going to carry them on board?” Christopher asks.
“Nah, we’ll check a bag.”
“Okay,” Sarah says slowly. She picks up the 2nd pistol and slides in a clip and grabs an extra one. Jago does the same.
Jago looks at Christopher. “You want one?”
Christopher shakes his head. “I’m good, dude.”
Jago snorts. “Good. We only have two.”
Sarah puts a hand on his arm. “Ready?”
“Hell yes.”
They’re not happy to do it, but they leave the rest of the guns and black-market electronics behind. Jago tosses Chiyoko’s sword into the trunk as well. They close the trunk and lock the car.
“I’ll be back for you, baby,” Jago says, patting the hood affectionately.
They leave and walk along the sidewalk and into the terminal. From force of habit Sarah counts the number of armed people. Fifteen black-clad officers with Beretta ARX 160s. Two K-9 units with large Alsatian dogs. Two undercovers smoking cigarettes with the obvious bulk of shoulder holsters under their sport jackets. All minding their business and watching the throng.
Christopher watches Sarah’s eyes, noticing the cops too. “Maybe we should ask one of these guys if they’ve seen a little Japanese cat burglar?”
“Don’t even joke,” Sarah says, focusing her eyes straight ahead. “No delays.”
Christopher limps a few steps behind her and Jago. He is, Christopher realizes, a pretty big delay on his own. He tries to keep up. They queue at the British Airways desk. They wait patiently. No trouble. They move up when the line does. They don’t talk. They stare at their smartphones, just like everybody else. They don’t look at all like they’re Playing a game for the fate of the world. They don’t look like the types who would carry high-tech guns through an airport.
“Avanti!” the desk agent calls.
Sarah and Jago pocket their phones and approach the agent, looking no more suspect than a pair of dusty, travel-sick kids on a gap year. Christopher leans on the counter next to them. He hands over his real passport. Sarah and Jago use fakes that Renzo made them. New identities. They buy tickets for Heathrow. The earliest flight leaves in two hours. No one asks any questions, and the bag with the guns disappears down a conveyor belt. Jago chuckles as they walk away from the desk. “By the way, friend,” he says to Christopher, “our luggage is in your name.”
Christopher’s eyes widen. “You fuck.”
“It’s fine,” Sarah says, placating Christopher but giving Jago a stern look. She actually doesn’t think it’s a bad move. On the off chance that the guns do raise red flags, it’ll be Christopher who’s questioned. She and Jago can slip away and move on. They’d come back for him after confronting Chiyoko.
As they walk through the tunnel toward the gate, Sarah and Jago once again outpace Christopher. It was just yesterday that Sarah spent the night with him, but now all that is forgotten. Aside from when she let him put his hand on her thigh in the Bush Hawk, they’ve hardly touched, and now it’s Jago who she feels more connected to. The two Players are focused but also excited, crackling with an energy that Christopher can’t understand.
He’s not excited about the trip to Stonehenge. He doesn’t care about Earth Key, or the Event, or the Sky People. Now he only cares about Sarah.
Christopher is afraid.
Afraid for her, and afraid for himself.
Afraid
because he can’t stop thinking that one of these two Players is going to die.
MACCABEE ADLAI, BAITSAKHAN
Saint Gabriel General Hospital, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
Baitsakhan is down two cousins, one brother, and now one hand. But he still has Maccabee Adlai. They are at a private hospital in Addis Ababa, paid for by Maccabee. Baitsakhan sits in bed, slurping ice water through a straw. During the rushed surgery to save him, he received 12 pints of blood, two of them donated by Maccabee himself, a universal donor.
“First the Aksumite, then the Harrapan,” Baitsakhan says, already thinking about the scores he has to settle.
Maccabee sits in a wooden chair next to him, intently studying the orb in his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Blood for blood, brother. Blood for blood.”
Maccabee shakes his head. “No. We have to change tactics. This can’t be about revenge.”
Baitsakhan rubs the gauze on his stump. “Why not? If we kill them all, then one of us will win. Not counting us, only eight remain. Maybe fewer.”
A dull light grows in the orb. “No, Baitsakhan. You weren’t listening to kepler 22b. One of us can win if all the others are dead, but we are guaranteed nothing. We still need the keys. We still need to satisfy the Makers.”
Baitsakhan spits on the floor. “We have one of the keys already. Trust, brother. My way will work.”
Maccabee is silent. The orb begins to glow, but the light is not overpowering. Baitsakhan is so consumed with murderous fantasies that he doesn’t notice. Images flicker within the dark globe. A jagged white peak. A dead tree. A vast fire. A little girl playing in a yard, a peacock, a person screaming. A rough circle of stones. A labyrinth cut in a field of wheat. A distinctive three-stone arrangement.