Sky Key

by James Frey

  Hayu Marca lays a hand on Sarah’s arm. “Sarah, I know that you and Jago have taken turns saving each other’s lives, and that if it weren’t for you, he might already be dead. I want to say thank you.”

  Sarah thinks of how quickly she left him in the tunnel back in London, sure that he was dead. How quickly she abandoned him.

  She shakes her head. “I’m positive I’d be dead, Mrs. Tlaloc, if not for Jago. He’s been good for me. I think we’ve been good for each other. I wish I’d met him without . . .” She waves her hand.

  Hayu Marca looks at her feet. “Yes. Endgame is hard.”

  “Yeah. Worse than I thought.”

  Hayu Marca raises her chin. “It will only get harder, Sarah.”

  “I know.” Sarah is suddenly exhausted. “I know.”

  Hayu Marca takes a step back and looks Sarah over. “I don’t think you’ve showered in days, my dear. Clean up, rest. You’ll find some fresh clothing and undergarments in the closet. We’ll come for you later.”

  Sarah smiles. “Thanks, Mrs. Tlaloc.”

  Hayu Marca shakes her head, holds up a hand. “It’s nothing.”

  Sarah goes into her room. She closes the door. She goes to the table and pours a glass of water. The bubbles pop and hiss. She sips it. The water is good. Sweet. She gulps it.

  And as she does, the door is locked shut.

  From the outside.

  Sarah spins. Runs to the door and tries it. Hayu Marca has shut her in. She pounds on the door and realizes that even though it looks wooden, it’s not.

  It’s steel. Thick and unforgiving.

  She unslings her backpack and pulls out her pistol and sights the window overlooking the garden and fires.

  The slug ricochets into the room, bouncing everywhere, finally embedding itself in the armoire.

  She runs to the glass. Throws herself on it. Pounds it. Screams “Liar!” She falls to her knees. Hits the glass more. “Fucking liar! Why?”

  But no one can hear.

  A minute later Jago and Renzo and Guitarrero appear in the central garden, moving toward Hayu Marca, who greets them with open arms. Jago pays no attention to Sarah—maybe he can’t even see her.

  The men turn so that their backs are to Sarah’s room. The only face she sees is Hayu Marca’s. She steps to her son, her only son, the champion of the Olmec line. She gives him another hug. She holds his scarred face with both hands. As she does, she stares at Sarah’s room.

  Stares at Sarah’s room and smiles.

  A sinister, sinister smile.

  HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT, STELLA VYCTORY

  Converted Warehouse off Bledsoe, Sunrise Manor, Nevada, United States

  Hilal sits in a plastic chair at a wooden table. Stella is in the kitchen tending a kettle. She has removed the sweatshirt and is in a simple V-neck and tight black jeans. She has returned the machete labeled HATE to Hilal and even offered him a gun, if it would make him feel better. He said it wasn’t necessary.

  As she puts tea bags in a pair of cups, Hilal says, “Miss Vyctory, I—”

  “Stella. Please, call me Stella.”

  “Stella—I am sorry, but I have some questions.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Stella says, rounding the counter with two steaming cups of tea. “I do too.” She sits opposite Hilal and puts the cups down. “Pick one. Just so you know I’m not trying to poison you.”

  Hilal points. Stella takes a big sip from that cup, cringing as the hot liquid goes down her throat, and passes it to Hilal. He doesn’t take it. Not yet.

  Stella leans back, her hands behind her head. Hilal admires her composure. “Mind if I go first?”

  Hilal, straight-backed and shamefully a little nervous, says, “Not at all.”

  He is certain she will ask a question about his wounds, but instead she says, “How’d you find me?”

  “I am a Player,” he says, as if that’s enough.

  Stella shakes her head. “No offense, but you didn’t just luck into finding me. Something led you here. Something that I’d wager is pretty old. Something that belonged to one of Them,” Stella says, pointing at the ceiling.

  Hilal doesn’t respond. He wants to hear what she has to say first.

  “Because of Ea I’ve seen my fair share of strange things. Machines that had no discernable purpose, small rocks that float whenever I touch them, musical instruments made for seven-fingered hands, and an ancient stone map that somehow lights up. So I’m pretty sure you have something like this, am I right?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

  “I am not sure I am comfortable—”

  “Did you get it from the ark?”

  Hilal is dumbstruck.

  Stella says, “Me and my accolytes have been studying the 12 ancient lines for a long time. I know more than you might expect about the Aksumites. So—can I see it?”

  Hilal considers this request for several moments before saying, “Yes. You can.” He carefully reaches into his pocket and pulls out the device and places it on the table. “This marked you—and him—with the sign of the caduceus. You are familiar with this sign?”

  “Does the Pope shit at the Vatican?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Kidding. Yes, I know the caduceus.” Stella looks at the device, leans forward, squints. “Can I touch it?”

  “Yes.”

  She reaches across the table and as soon as her fingers grace the device, it glows to life, just as it does in Hilal’s hands. This is validating for Hilal. He becomes slightly more convinced that finding Stella was a stroke of luck.

  Or of destiny.

  “My, my,” Stella says.

  “It does not do that for everyone, Stella.”

  “Count me lucky, then.” She picks it up and moves it around the room. “Know what all this means?”

  “Come next to me and I will explain what I can.”

  Stella rises and walks around the table, her eyes never leaving the small screen. She kneels next to Hilal. There is no array of stars and no caduceus when Stella holds it, but there is the list of coordinates, as well as the glowing blob. And there is something else on the device when it’s in her grasp: odd glowing glyphs, not unlike the one etched on the device, consisting of straight lines and little dots.

  “You know what the coordinates are?” Stella asks, almost like a test.

  “The dynamic ones are Players. The rest, I am not sure.”

  “Interesting. And the orange ball?”

  “What do you think?” Hilal asks, curious if she might elucidate him.

  “Mr. al-Salt, I think that’s your first question. Your restraint is admirable.”

  “Thank you, Stella. But please call me Hilal.”

  “All right, Hilal. And I actually know what the blob is: it’s what that guy on TV called Sky Key.”

  Hilal frowns. “But how can you be so sure?”

  “I mentioned a map a few minutes ago. It’s of the entire Earth and it has this blob on it too. Before Earth Key was found, the blob was over Stonehenge. Now it’s in the eastern Himalayas. I’m certain it’s Sky Key.”

  “And you think it will show us where the third key is too, when its turn comes?”

  “One would hope, right?”

  “Yes. One would hope.”

  “Stella, if you know this is Sky Key then why aren’t you going to it? Don’t you want to find the other Players?”

  “I’m not interested in Sky or the Players. Not right now, at any rate. You see, I have what you might call a line of my own. Not one of the original 12, but a little army that I’ve put together. I’ve been recruiting them for a while now, educating them, learning from them, challenging them, training them. Training with them.”

  “For what? Endgame?”

  Stella stands and places a hand on Hilal’s shoulder. “No. For war.”

  “Against Ea?”

  Stella shakes her head.

  And then it hits him: “The Makers.
”

  “Yes.”

  And in that moment Hilal’s trust grows leaps and bounds for Stella Vyctory. He believes her. Utterly. She hands him back his device and returns to her seat and lets the air clear. She drinks more of her tea. Hilal finally drinks his too. It is delicious. Slightly acrid yet sweet and flowery.

  “Why would you fight them?” he asks.

  “Not to be coy, but let me answer that with a question. Why is Endgame happening?”

  A pain shoots through Hilal’s neck. “If you had asked me before it started, I would have told you because the Makers said it would.”

  “So prophecy. Because God promised it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now what do you say?”

  “Because they want it to happen. They want to see us fight each other, see us suffer, and see us die. And—although this is a guess—because they want what we have.”

  Stella puts a finger on the tip of her nose. “Exactly.”

  “Earth.”

  “Yeah. Right out of a fucking sci-fi movie.”

  “Yes. But why? If they are an extremely powerful race that can travel the stars, why Earth? And why ever bother with Endgame at all?”

  “That’s the bit I haven’t worked out. For now, it’s enough to know that they’re coming and that we need to stop them.” There is a long pause. They drink more tea. Stella puts down her cup and waves a hand, indicating his wounds. “Another Player do that to you?”

  “Two, working together.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hilal shrugs. “I survived. It is part of the game. A part of the . . . war.” Because that is what this really is, Hilal thinks. Not a game, but a war. How can we have not seen that? How can we have been so blinded by prophecy? Aren’t we supposed to be the enlightened ones?

  How?

  “This is a lot to take in, Stella.”

  “I know. Honestly, it’s a lot for me too.”

  “Can I ask another question?”

  “Fire away, Aksumite.”

  “Why do you want to kill Ea?”

  “Ah. That one has a long answer. The short version is that I hate him and he’s a monster. But I don’t want him dead merely for revenge. It’s a lot more than that. I know that if humanity is to have any meaningful future—alien invasion or no—then Ea needs to go. He can’t have this world to play with anymore.”

  “That is a good reason. And do not discount hate. It can be a potent fuel in the engine of righteousness.”

  “I’ll have to remember that one. Anyway, Ea lied to me. For years I thought he was my father, but it turned out he’d kidnapped me after arranging for my mother to die in a horrific car accident with me in the backseat.”

  “That is disturbing.”

  “Oh, it gets worse. My mother had been an astronaut in the eighties and had her DNA altered in orbit during one of her missions. And this new DNA was not at all human.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “Yep. Some of her genetic code became alien code—Maker code, the same code that runs through Ea’s veins.” She takes another sip of tea. “And, since I’m her daughter, I happen to be the lucky recipient of some of it.”

  Hilal’s eyes widen. “So you’re a—”

  Stella nods. “A hybrid. An intergalactic mutt.”

  Hilal shrugs. “At least it explains why you were marked by the caduceus on the ark’s device.”

  “Yeah, if nothing else it brought us together, which is great. But wait—I’m not done. He spent the next twenty-two years tormenting me in order to keep me compliant. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he did. Luckily, it didn’t last. Not too long ago I started to learn of things about humanity’s old history and, even though I was ignorant of Endgame until it started, about the 12 lines and the corruption of man and about something called the Ancient Truth.”

  “Did you say the Ancient Truth?”

  “Yes. You know it, don’t you? Obviously, by the look in your eyes.”

  Hilal nods. Tells Stella of the Aksumite duty not only to keep a Player ready for Endgame but also to guard the Ancient Truth and to seek and destroy Ea. “But we have never been able to find him,” Hilal laments.

  “He’s a sly snake,” Stella says.

  “Yes.”

  “But now you have found him. Or you’ve found me. And even though I couldn’t get within half a mile of him, you can.”

  Hilal’s spirits lift. He is suddenly ecstatic. “You will help me, Stella Vyctory?”

  “Hell yes, I will. Although I have to say, going after Ea is a suicide mission, and one that’s bound to fail. You see, Ea—he goes by the name Wayland Vyctory.”

  Hilal knows that name. Everyone does. “The hotelier?”

  “That’s the one. The problem is, the bastard is fucking immortal. Been around for over ten thousand years, and will be around for the next ten thousand too.”

  “I can kill him,” Hilal says, shaking his head.

  “Bullshit.”

  “No. I can.”

  “How?”

  He tells her of the ark, and of the rods of Aaron and Moses. “All I have to do is get close enough for them to strike.”

  “I can make that happen, Hilal.” Stella takes a long sip of tea. “I still think it’s a suicide mission, but if your weapons will work, it’ll be worth it. Sorry to be so blunt.”

  “Not at all. I agree. Completely.”

  “Great. I have a mole who works very closely with Wayland, a woman named Rima Subotic. She’s been waiting for a long time, and I think this is it. So what do you say—will you let me help you?”

  “Yes, Stella Vyctory. Yes.”

  “Great. Then let’s get you an audience with the inestimable Wayland Vyctory.”

  AN LIU

  Shang Warehouse, 3 Chome-7-19 Shinkiba, Kt-Ku, Tokyo Port, Japan

  Blink. Shiver. Blink.

  An is woken by a slight tic, an echo from a dream he can’t remember. He is on a cot at the southern end of a cavernous room. He turns onto his side, stares across the open space. Sunlight fights through three oily skylights. Support columns and desks and tables full of computers and screens and keyboards. Metal chests full of weapons and money and ammunition. A shipping container full of explosives and detonators and switches and electronics, rigged to explode and take out and poison everything for a three-block radius on this man-made block of land in Tokyo Port. Another shipping container housing an IBM z Systems mainframe protected by an intricate, quadruple-redundant firewall of his own design. A Canon 5D on a tripod. A showerhead over an open drain. A sink. A toilet. A full-length mirror. A rolling rack with a small collection of clothing.

  His temporary kingdom. One of six remaining Shang headquarters in the world. The palace of destruction from which he will make his next move.

  He stands. Naked save for the thing around his neck. Walks across the concrete floor, goes to the sink. Runs hot water. The steam rises. He puts his hands to his chest, smooths the hair and skin necklace of Chiyoko Takeda. Breathes deeply through his nose. He can still smell her. The scent is weakening, but he can still smell her.

  He’s not sure for how much longer.

  Blink. Shiver. Shiver.

  The tics are like small aftershocks. Chiyoko protects. Even after what An did to her uncle. Even though he disrespected her line.

  Even after.

  That is how much she loves him.

  Even now.

  An runs his hands under the water. Chiyoko’s analog watch is on his wrist. The second hand clicks along.

  Tick tick tick.

  The seconds pass.

  Time doesn’t wait.

  Tick tick tick.

  He slips into a black jumpsuit from the rolling rack. He sits at his main terminal. Bites his nails while the computer comes to life. Bounces his knee. The screen is on. A wallpaper picture of Chiyoko fills the screen, a picture he found from an airport surveillance camera in China. He opens a terminal window, and types a string of commands and a P
IN: 2148050023574. He raises his hand, passes it through the air. A Kinect that’s hooked up to the computer interprets his gestures. Windows open and close, open and close. Maps, photos, lists of names, coordinates, ancient places, sacred places. He opens a folder full of photos, flicks through them.

  There is Sarah Alopay’s yearbook picture.

  A clear surveillance picture of Jago Tlaloc.

  A snapshot of Maccabee Adlai, maybe one year younger, in a black Speedo on the shores of some European beach.

  A grainy picture of Baitsakhan from a security archive in Ulaanbaatar.

  A clear and smiling picture of Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt, found on an Ethiopian Christian charity’s website. His blue eyes, his straight teeth, his perfect skin.

  Aisling Kopp in a bikini at Coney Island, her skin as white as snow.

  Shari Chopra on vacation, standing in front of a peculiar-looking church, all spires and red stone, that looks like it’s been dripped from a giant’s hand. Shari holds a baby girl in her arms, her cheeks pudgy, her hair short, her hands tugging at Shari’s colorful blouse.

  He doesn’t need pictures for the dead. Chiyoko. The Minoan. The Sumerian. The Koori, whose battered and lifeless picture he found online.

  Four and counting.

  He puts the photos into a PowerPoint presentation. He works on his speech. He runs it through Google Translate to get a passable version in English.

  When he is ready, he moves to the camera and starts recording. On the 4th try he gets it all the way through without any major hiccups.

  “People, my name is An Liu,” it starts. His voice is calm. His eyes are vacant. He doesn’t sit up straight. And he has a necklace of hair and skin and shriveled ears draped over his chest.

  “I want to talk to you about everything that is happening. About the meteors. About Abaddon. About the dirty bomb in Xi’an. About life and death. About something most people have not heard of. A thing called Endgame. I do not care if you believe what I say, but what I say is true. Endgame is real. It is a contest started by these things that are happening. It is contest that has been secret for many thousands of years. A secret guarded by twelve chosen lines of people. People who trace their ancestors to the beginning of time. To a time before time. To the gods themselves. My line is called Shang. Endgame is real and Endgame is here. We fight each other to win, and the winner gets to live. The people in that person’s line will also live. Everyone else will die.”