Sky Key

“It is I,” Maccabee Adlai, Player of the 8th line, says into an inconspicuous wireless microphone. He speaks a language only 10 people in the entire world understand. “Kalla bhajat niboot scree.”

These words have no translation. They are older than old, but the woman on the other end of the call understands.

“Kalla bhajat niboot scree,” she says in return. They have proven their identities to each other. “Is your phone secure?” the woman asks.

“I think. But who cares. The end is so close.”

“The others could find you.”

“Screw the others. Besides,” Maccabee says, wrapping his fingers around the glass orb in his pocket, “I would see them coming. Listen, Ekaterina.” Maccabee has always called his mother by her first name, even when he was a boy. “I need something.”

“Anything, my Player.”

“I need a hand. Mechanical. Titanium. Don’t care if it’s skinned.”

“Neurologically fused?”

“If you can do it quickly.”

“Depends on the wound. I’ll know when I see it.”

“Where? How soon?”

Ekaterina thinks. “Berlin. Two days. I’ll text an address tomorrow.”

“Good. Listen. The hand isn’t for me.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not for me, and I need you to put something in it. Something hidden.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll send you specs and code over encrypted botnet M-N-V-eight-nine.”

“Okay.”

“Repeat it,” Maccabee says to his mother.

“M-N-V-eight-nine.”

“It’ll arrive twenty seconds after this call ends. The name of the file is dogwood jeer.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll see you in Berlin.”

“Yes, my son, my Player. Kalla bhajat niboot scree.”

“Kalla bhajat niboot scree.”

Maccabee hangs up. He logs into a ghost app on his phone, launches it, and hits send. Dogwood jeer is off. He turns the phone over, removes the battery, and throws it into the waste bin next to the hotel’s front desk. He takes the phone in both hands and, as he crosses to the gift shop, cracks it down the middle. He goes to a refrigerator full of sodas and opens the door. The cold hits him in the face. He pulls the air into his lungs. It feels good.

He reaches into the back of the case for two Cokes, drops the phone. It clatters behind the racks.

He pays for the Cokes and heads back to the hotel room.

Baitsakhan is on the couch in the junior suite. He sits on the edge of the cushion, his back straight, his eyes closed. The gauze on his wrist stump is blotted by spots of dark blood. His remaining hand—his right hand—is in a fist.

Maccabee closes the door. “I got you a Coke.”

“I don’t like Coke.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Jalair liked Coke.”

I wish I were Playing with him instead, Maccabee thinks. He twists open his soda, it makes a little hiss, he takes a sip. It tickles his tongue and throat. It’s delicious. “We’re going to Berlin, Baits.”

Baitsakhan opens his deep brown eyes and gazes at Maccabee. “The wind doesn’t blow me there, brother.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No. We have to kill the Aksumite.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

Maccabee pulls the orb out of his pocket. “There’s no point. Hilal is nearly dead. He isn’t going anywhere. Besides, his line would be guarding him. It would be suicide to go back there now. Better to wait it out. Maybe he dies anyway and spares us a trip.”

“Who then? The Harappan? To avenge Bat and Bold?”

Maccabee approaches Baitsakhan and lightly slaps his stump. Maccabee knows this hurts, but Baitsakhan only sucks his teeth. “She’s too far away. Others are much closer—others who have Earth Key. Others who are Playing by the rules. You remember what the orb showed us, don’t you?”

“Yes. That stone monument. That girl called Sarah getting the first Key. Yes … You’re right.”

Maccabee thinks, That’s the closest thing to an apology I’ve ever heard from him.

Baitsakhan nods. “We need to go for them.”

“I’m glad you agree. First things first. You need to get your arm fixed.”

“I don’t want it fixed. I don’t need it fixed.”

Maccabee shakes his head. “Don’t you want to shoot your bow again? Rein a horse and swing a sword at the same time? Wring the life from the Harappan with two hands instead of one?”

Baitsakhan tilts his head. “These things aren’t possible.”

“You ever heard of neurofusing? Intelligent prosthetics?”

Baitsakhan wrinkles his brow.

“I swear,” Maccabee says, “you and your line are from a different century. What I’m saying is that we’re going to lend you a hand, so to speak. A better hand than the one you had before.”

Baitsakhan holds up his stump. “Where does such magic happen?”

Maccabee snickers. “Berlin. In two days.”

“Fine. And then?”

“And then we use this,” Maccabee says, holding up the orb that Baitsakhan can’t touch, “to find the Cahokian and the Olmec and take Earth Key for ourselves.”

Baitsakhan closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath. “We hunt.”

“Yes, brother. We hunt.”

“Speculation remains rampant about what’s going on at Stonehenge in the south of England. It’s been nearly a week since locals reported seeing a predawn beam of light surge to the heavens, preceded by massive booming sounds that rang out only seconds before. Given the ancient monument’s mysterious history, people are saying that anything from aliens to secret government agencies to Morlocks, which are a kind of underground-dwelling troglodyte——yes, you heard correctly——are responsible for whatever is going on there. We go now to Fox News correspondent Mills Power, who’s been in nearby Amesbury since the reports started pouring in. Mills?”

“Hello, Stephanie.”

“Can you tell us anything about what’s going on?”

“It’s been very chaotic. This quaint village is overrun with people. Government trucks travel constantly to and from the site, and the air is thick with helicopters. I’ve even been told by an anonymous source that three high-altitude CIA or MI6 Predator drones are in the skies twenty-four hours a day keeping watch. The whole area’s been declared off-limits, and a mix of British, French, German, and American authorities have even covered the site with what is essentially a massive white circus tent.”

“So no one can actually see what caused this alleged beam of light?”

“That’s right, Stephanie. But the light isn’t alleged. Fox News has obtained four separate smartphone videos of the beam, as you can see in this footage.”

“Wow … this is the first time I’m seeing——”

“Yes. It’s shocking. You can see the beam shooting up in this one——apparently from an area of Stonehenge called the Heel Stone. But the really strange thing, Stephanie, is that all four phones stopped recording at the same moment, even though the people operating them tried to keep shooting.”

“Stonehenge is——was——a tourist attraction of sorts, Mills. Has anyone——besides the people who took those videos——has anyone come forward from the site itself? Any eyewitnesses?”

“As I said, things are very much under wraps here——literally. There are rumors of people being held by the authorities, and that some may be on HMS Dauntless, a Royal Navy destroyer currently in the English Channel. Of course, a military spokeswoman wouldn’t confirm or deny these rumors, based on the fact that this is an ongoing investigation. When pressed on exactly what they’re investigating, the standard response seems to be——quote——‘unexpected developments in and around Stonehenge.’ That’s it. All we know for certain is that, whatever has happened, they don’t want people to know what it is.”

“Yes, that is … that is obvious. Mills, thank you very much. Please keep us abreast of any new developments as they become available.”

“Will do, Stephanie.”

“Uh, next on Fox News, the ongoing crisis in Syria, plus a heartwarming story from the meteor impact site in Al Ain, United Arab Emirates …”

Aisling Kopp saw the impact site on the way in through one of the plane’s small oval windows. That black bowl-shaped scar in the city, 10 times more devastating than any of the pictures from 2001’s man-made terror attack.

But something about it had changed.

It wasn’t that it had been fixed up or cleaned away—that would take decades. What had changed was at the crater’s center, the very point of impact. Now, instead of ash and rubble, there was a clean white dot.

A tent. Just like the one that covered whatever had happened at Stonehenge. Whatever the Cahokian and the Olmec had done to the ancient Celtic ruin.

One of her line’s places. An ancient La Tène power center.

Used. Taken away. And covered up.

The white tents are like signals to Aisling. Governments are scared, ignorant, groping. If they can’t fix what’s happened—the meteors, Stonehenge—then they’ll shroud the damage until they figure it out.

They won’t figure it out, though.

A few minutes after the plane arced over Queens, she saw something else. Something she wanted to see. There, in Broad Channel, on the stretch of land bridging the Rockaway Peninsula to the Queens mainland. Pop’s house. The teal bungalow on West 10th Road, still standing after the meteor that hit several miles to the north, killing 4,416 souls and injuring twice as many more. It would’ve been so much worse if the meteor hadn’t landed in a cemetery. The already dead bore the brunt of its impact.

Aisling is still alive. And her house still stands.

For how much longer, Aisling doesn’t know. How much longer will JFK stand? Or the government’s white tents? Or anything at all?

The Event is coming. Aisling knows when but not where. If it’s centered on the Philippines or Siberia or Antarctica or Madagascar, then Pop’s wooden house will survive. New York will survive. JFK will survive.

But if the Event hits anywhere in the North Atlantic, towering waves will crash down on the coast, washing away miles and miles of houses. If the Event hits on land, if it hits the city, then her home will go up in flames in a matter of seconds.

She’s convinced that wherever the Event is concentrated, it will be an asteroid. It has to be. That’s what she saw in the ancient paintings above Lago Beluiso. Fire from above. Death from above, just like life and consciousness from above. A massive hunk of iron and nickel as old as the Milky Way that will crash into Earth and alter life here for millennia. A cosmic interloper of massive scale. A killer.

That’s what the keplers are. Killers.

That’s what I am too. In theory.

She moves forward in the long, slow immigration line.

Why didn’t she shoot the Cahokian and the Olmec when she had the chance? Maybe she could have stopped everything. Maybe, for that brief moment, she held the key to stopping Endgame.

Maybe.

She should have shot first and asked questions later.

She was weak.

You have to be strong in Endgame, Pop used to tell her. Even before she was eligible. Strong in every way.

I’ll have to be stronger to stop it, she thinks. I won’t be weak again.

“Next at thirty-one,” says an Indian woman in a maroon sport jacket, interrupting Aisling’s apocalyptic train of thought. The woman has smiling eyes and dark lips and jet-black hair.

“Thanks,” Aisling says. She smiles at the woman, looks at all the people in this vast room, people from every corner of the world, of every shape and size and color, rich and not-so-rich. She’s always loved JFK immigration for this reason. In most other countries you see a predominance of one type of person, but not here. It almost makes her sick, thinking that it will all be gone. That all these people from so many different walks of life will no longer smile, laugh, wait, breathe, or live.

When will they find out? she wonders. As it happens? In that split second before the end? Hours before? Weeks? Months? Tomorrow? Today?

Today. That would be interesting. Very interesting.

The government would need a lot more white tents.

Aisling arrives at desk 31. There is one person in line before her. An athletic African-American woman in a royal-blue jumpsuit with fashionable bug-eyed sunglasses.

“Next,” the immigration officer says. The woman crosses the red line to the desk. It takes her 78 seconds to clear.

“Next,” the officer repeats. Aisling approaches, her passport ready. The officer is in his 60s with square eyeglasses and a bald spot. He’s probably counting the days to his retirement. Aisling hands over her passport. It’s worn and has been stamped dozens of times, but as far as Aisling is concerned it’s brand-new. She picked it up at a dead drop in Milan on Via Fabriano only hours before going to Malpensa airport. Pop had sent it via courier 53 hours earlier. The name on it is Deandra Belafonte Cooper, a new alias. Deandra was born in Cleveland. She’s been to Turkey, Bermuda, Italy, France, Poland, the UK, Israel, Greece, and Lebanon. Pretty good for a young woman of 20 years.

Yes, 20 years. If the meteors had landed just a few weeks later, she would have aged out. But Aisling celebrated her birthday while she was holed up in that cave. Although “celebrated” is a pretty generous word for eating spit-roasted squirrel and drinking cold mountain spring water. She did enjoy a few sugar cubes after her meal, along with two small pulls off a flask of Kentucky bourbon. But it was no party.

“You’ve been around,” the agent says, leafing through the passport.

“Yeah, took a year off before college. Which turned into two,” Aisling says, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

“Headed home?”

“Yep. Breezy Point.”

“Ah, local girl.”

“Yep.”

He slides the passport through the scanner. He puts down the little blue book. He types. He looks bored but happy—that retirement is looming—but then his hands pause for a split second over the keys. He squints very slightly and adjusts his posture.

He keeps typing.

She’s been standing there for 99 seconds when he says, “Miss Cooper, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside and see some of my colleagues over there.”

Aisling feigns concern. “Is there something wrong with my passport?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Can I have it then?”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t. Now please”—he holds up one hand and places the other on the butt of his holstered pistol—“over there.”

Aisling already sees them from the corner of her eye. Two men, both in fatigues and armed with M4s and Colt service pistols, one with a very large Alsatian panting happily on a leash.

“Am I being arrested?”

The officer snaps the strap off his pistol but doesn’t draw. Aisling wonders if this moment is the most exciting of his 20-odd years as an immigration officer. “Miss, I am not going to ask again. Please see my colleagues.”

Aisling holds up her hands and widens her eyes, makes them watery, like how Deandra Belafonte Cooper, the non-Player world traveler, would look in the situation. Scared and fragile.

She turns from the officer and walks haltingly toward the men. They don’t buy it. In fact, they take half a step back. The dog stands, as his handler whispers a command. His ears perk, his tail straightens, the hairs on his neck bristle. The man without the dog moves his rifle into the ready position and says, “That way. You first. No need for a scene, but we need to see your hands.”

Aisling dispenses with the act. She turns, puts her hands behind her back, just under her knapsack, and hooks her thumbs. “That all right?”

“Yes. Walk straight ahead. There’s a door at the end of the room marked E-one-one-seven. It will open when you get to it.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“No, miss, you cannot. Now walk.”

She walks.

And as she does, Aisling wonders if they are going to put her under a white tent too.

“Tango Whiskey X-ray, this is Hotel Lima, over?”

“Tango Whiskey X-ray, we read you.”

“Hotel Lima confirms idents of Nighthawks One and Two. Good night. Repeat, good night. Over.”

“Roger, Hotel Lima. Good night. Protocol?”

“Protocol is Ghost Takedown. Over.”

“Roger Ghost Takedown. Teams One, Two, and Three are in position. We have eyes?”

“Eyes are online. Op on oh-four-five-five Zulu.”

“Op on oh-four-five-five Zulu, copy. See you on the other side.”

“Roger that, Tango Whiskey X-ray. Hotel Lima out.”

The news is on all day in the background while Jago talks with Renzo to finalize their transportation. Sarah packs. Not that they have much to pack. When he’s done with Renzo, Jago goes over their emergency escape plan, should they need it. The one that winds through the nearby Tube tunnels and sewers. Sarah listens, but Jago sees that she’s not paying attention. They eat more Burger King—breakfast this time—savoring every greasy, salty bite. The Event is coming. The days are numbered for this kind of fast-food deliciousness.

Sarah meditates in the bathtub, tries not to cry about Christopher or triggering the end of the world, and miraculously succeeds. Jago exercises in the living room. Rips off three sets of 100 push-ups, three sets of 250 sit-ups, three sets of 500 jumping jacks. After her meditation, Sarah cleans their plastic-and-ceramic guns. She has no idea who made them, but each is identical to a Sig Pro 2022 in every way save material, color, weight, and magazine capacity. When she’s finished, she puts one by her bedside and one by Jago’s. His and hers. Nearly jokes that they should be mongrammed but doesn’t feel like joking. Each pistol has 16 rounds plus an extra 17-round magazine. Sarah fired one bullet at Stonehenge, killing Christopher and hitting An, probably killing him too. Jago fired one that grazed Chiyoko’s head. Other than their bodies, these are the only weapons they have.

Unless Earth Key counts as a weapon, which it very well might. It sits in the middle of the round coffee table. Small and seemingly innocent. The trigger for the end of the world.

The news on the TV is BBC. All day it’s the same. The meteors, the mystery at Stonehenge, the meteors, the mystery at Stonehenge, the meteors, the mystery at Stonehenge. Sprinkled here and there with some stuff from Syria and Congo and Latvia and Myanmar, plus the tanking world economy, reeling from a new kind of financial panic that, Sarah and Jago know, is the result of Endgame. The suits on Wall Street don’t know that, though. Not yet, anyway.

The meteors, and the mystery at Stonehenge. Wars, crashing markets.

The news.

“None of this will matter once it happens,” Sarah says in the early evening.

“You’re right. Nada.”

A commercial. A local ad for a car dealership. “I guess some of it I won’t miss,” Sarah says. Maybe she does feel like a joke.

Jago should be happy about this. But he just stares at the TV. “I don’t know. I think I’ll miss it all.”

Sarah glares at Earth Key. She was the one who unlocked … no. She has decided to stop blaming herself. She was only Playing. She didn’t make the rules. Sarah sits on the edge of the bed, her hands planted firmly on the mattress, her elbows locked. “What do you think it’ll be, Jago?”

“I don’t know. You remember what kepler 22b showed us. That image of Earth …”

“Burned. Dark. Gray and brown and red.”

“Sí.”

“Ugly …”

“Maybe it’ll be alien tech? One of kepler’s amigos pushes a button from their home planet and—poof!—Earth is screwed.”

“No. It’s got to be more terrifying than that. More … more of a show.”

Jago flicks the remote, the TV shuts off. “Whatever happens, I don’t want to think about it right now.”

She looks at him. Holds out a hand. Jago takes it and sits on the bed next to her and pushes his shoulder into hers.

“I don’t want to be alone, Jago.”

“You won’t be, Alopay.”

“Not after what happened at Stonehenge.”

“You won’t be.”