Sky Key

by James Frey

  He clears his throat. He will edit this out.

  “Endgame will make the new world, but it will be an awful world. Endgame will kill most of you. Children. Mothers. Sons. Fathers. Daughters. Babies. If none of us win, Endgame will kill all of humanity and much of life. But, people, Endgame is a contest that can be stopped. And I know how to stop it.”

  An is lying. He has no interest in stopping it, and if he knew how, he wouldn’t tell a soul.

  “Abaddon is coming. This is a thing me and other Players call the Event. Our lines have known about the Event for many thousands of years. We did not know what it would be or when it would arrive until only a few weeks ago, but we did know that it would be horrible. Abaddon will be horrible, people. More horrible than I can say or you can imagine. . . . But you can stop it. . . . You can help me stop it. The way to stop it is simple. Me and the Players are people.”

  When the video is ready, here is where the faces will go.

  “The names are Sarah Alopay. Jago Tlaloc. Maccabee Adlai. A boy named Baitsakhan. Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt. Aisling Kopp. Shari Chopra. Four others are already dead. One I killed.”

  Clears his throat again.

  “They are just people. Not all-powerful, not supernatural. But very, very dangerous. All of us are trained for killing, for evasion, for computers, for disguise. Expert pilots, fighters, drivers. Together we are the most dangerous people on Earth. This is not hyperbole. Ask the English Special Forces about me. They will confirm.”

  He brings his hands together, as in prayer.

  “Here is what I ask of you. That you help me kill all of these Players. When all are proven to be dead, I will kill myself. If not, then you can kill me. I will not hide from you. If all of us die before Abaddon, if our lines are all ended, then the game will short-circuit. The gods who put Abaddon in the sky will take it away. Its appearance in our solar system is a mystery. A great mystery. Its disappearance will be just as mysterious, but we will know why it happened if not how.”

  He leans forward, gets closer to the camera.

  “It will happen because you did not allow it to. Because you worked together and saved life. Life on Earth. Not death. Life.”

  He holds out his hand.

  “Please. Join me. Kill the Players. Save the world. Kill the Players. Save the world.”

  He pauses, still holding his hand out.

  Then, BLINKshivershivershiverBLINKBLINKblinkblink.

  SHIVERSHIVERshiverBLINK.

  BlinkSHIVER.

  Shiver.

  BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK.

  A small torrent of tics. Nothing to fret over. He turns off the camera. He’ll edit it and upload it from an anonymous account to YouTube, email-blast every single news outlet and government agency and thousands of independent reporters and internet “tastemakers” worldwide. He’ll hack the YouTube viewer counter so that it launches with millions of views. In the comments section he’ll even write the last-known locations of every single living Player, a task his web-bots and aggregators and filters are still working on. Once he has these, the video will go live, and everyone in the world will watch it at least once. It doesn’t matter if everyone believes it. All he needs is for some people to believe it. All he needs is for the special forces and secret police and clandestine services of the world’s governments to see the faces of the Players, to learn of their locations, and to think they can stop Abaddon. All he needs is a little help.

  Help from unwitting and foolish people who will still all perish.

  To the man, the woman, the child.

  All.

  As he waits for the footage to download from the camera, he notices that the second hand on Chiyoko’s watch doesn’t move. He taps the face. Pushes a button at 10 o’clock. Taps the face again. The second hand moves.

  Tick tick tick.

  He unfastens the buckle so he can wind the mechanism. And as he does this, something catches his eye. He’s not sure, but it looks as though a small digital blip swipes across the clear face.

  What prize did you leave me, Chiyoko?

  He picks up a different DSLR camera. Takes a picture. Transfers the file to his computer. Opens Photoshop.

  And there.

  A faint, imperfect grid, its squares minuscule but uniform, stretched across the crystal.

  Maybe the camera’s polarizing filter revealed this grid? He unscrews the filter, takes another picture.

  No grid.

  He spends the next 2.3 hours writing a macro into Photoshop that will generate thousands of polarizing patterns every second, applying each to the photo of the watch, seeing if any yield results.

  And yes. After 17 minutes and 31 seconds of running the macro, pattern number 3,114,867 hits.

  He prints this pattern onto a sheet of acetate and stretches it over the camera’s lens. He puts it on a tripod, points it at the watch on the table, and feeds the camera’s image directly to his computer.

  A blip.

  Blip-blip.

  Three seconds.

  Blip-blip.

  Stationary for the moment.

  A scale at the bottom in tiny letters: D cm = 300 m.

  A set of coordinates at the top: -15.51995,-70.14783.

  An punches the numbers into Google Maps. The site is blacked out, but it’s just south and west of Juliaca, Peru.

  Jago Tlaloc?

  He clicks the button at 10 o’clock.

  The tiny screen swipes. Another blip.

  Blip-blip.

  Three seconds.

  Blip-blip.

  This one moving, quickly.

  An punches these coordinates into the computer. Another Player, apparently flying southwest from Europe toward South America. Someone going to Jago Tlaloc? Who? Does one of them have Earth Key? Does one of them have Sky Key? Is the game so far along that it’s too late for An’s plan to work?

  No. The kepler would have announced if a Player had taken Sky Key.

  He clicks the button again. Chiyoko only tracked two.

  Two out of the seven others who remain.

  What a gift. What a precious, precious gift.

  “Even in death, my love.” An strokes Chiyoko around his neck. The video will be ready soon. He will mark these Players for the world, broadcast their locations.

  “Even in death.”

  GREG JORDAN

  Gulfstream G650, 37,800 Feet over the Bering Strait

  Greg rubs his eyes. Looks wearily around the cabin. Sees everyone else—McCloskey and Pop and Aisling—totally knocked out.

  Good for them. We’re going to need as much rack as we can get before this thing gets rolling.

  He lets out a big sigh. It’s been a long couple of days. The news of Abaddon, the alliance with Aisling, the choice to hunt down An Liu, the decision to redirect the kill team Kilo Foxtrot Echo, which he has yet to do, and most importantly the knowledge that billions will die very soon make these the longest days of his life. And he’s had some doozies.

  But these days. They’re the fucking longest.

  Greg stands, thinking, If now isn’t the time for an f-bomb, then I don’t know when is. Shit, I could probably sit in a dark room and just let out an unending stream of f-bombs for a week, and that would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do in light of everything I know.

  He thinks that he’d rather live than just curse into the void, though. Even if the fucking world really is gonna fucking blow up.

  And Greg knows that living means helping Aisling now, and not Stella. Not DOAT. Stella and hers can carry on with their mission to stop the aliens from coming back, and God bless them to heaven and hell and back, but right now Greg has to prioritize. Greg has to live. Greg has to help Aisling. If Aisling can figure out some quick way to end the game, great, but if not, then she has to win. That’s the plan and he’s down with it. He’s down.

  This means that Greg has to get his crew to Japan and help Aisling figure out the best way to go about killing An Liu.

  Greg opens the
cockpit door and squeezes into the copilot seat. Even Marrs is sacked out, letting the plane make its way on autopilot.

  Greg puts the cans on and fires up the encrypted radio. Puts in the channel and gives it the series of coded clicks that Kilo Foxtrot Echo is always listening for.

  God bless KFE, Greg thinks. To heaven and hell and back.

  After about a minute the line cracks. Per protocol, the woman on the other end says nothing.

  Greg says, “This is Gold Leader. Authorization to speak freely is granted. Code is ‘hot sauce fifty-nine jays with bunnies,’ repeat, ‘hot sauce fifty-nine jays with bunnies.’ Copy back.”

  “Hey, Gold Leader,” the woman says.

  “Hey, Wi-Fi. Where y’at?”

  “Still in Amesbury.”

  “You guys got DOAT wired to deal with Stonehenge?”

  “Roger that. Wired and ready. Should only be a few days now. Waiting on word from Stella.”

  “Ah, Stella. Talk to her lately?”

  “Not at all. Gone silent since Abaddon announcement. Shit’s FUBAR, yeah?”

  “Super-duper FUBAR, Wi-Fi. Listen now and listen good. I have a new mission, effective yesterday.”

  “Fire back.”

  “You need to pull up and relocate the team to the Tokyo safe house, stat. We’ll be on the ground in under five hours. What time can you make?”

  Wi-Fi pauses. “Fourteen hours, sixteen tops.”

  “Excellent. This is a kill mission, top-shelf. Pack your guts and expect to get wet.”

  “Can’t wait,” Wi-Fi says, and Greg knows she means it. Wi-Fi loves a good kill mission. Every member of Kilo Foxtrot Echo does.

  “Marrs’ll upload everything we got on the mark soon. You can check it en route. I repeat, Wi-Fi, look hot on this one. Get the boys ready.”

  Wi-Fi just makes a little giggly noise. The boys are always ready, and Greg knows it. All she says before clicking off is “See you in Japan, Gold Leader. Wi-Fi out.”

  HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT

  Caesars Palace, Suite 2405, Las Vegas, Nevada, United States

  Hilal left Stella at her warehouse headquarters 37 hours ago. She told him to be ready to receive a message on this day—the message that would help him gain access to Wayland Vyctory.

  He wakes early. He prays to Uncle Moses, Fathers Christ and Mohammed, Grandfather Buddha. Meditates on the divine spark that resides in each human being like a forgotten organ. Asks for guidance and strength.

  Does not pray for salvation or redemption. Whatever happens, he is already saved, already redeemed.

  Paradise is here, within, not up there, beyond where the Makers reside.

  When he is ready Hilal opens a hidden compartment in his suitcase. In it is the Breastplate of Aaron. The 12 wooden blocks, the 12 colored stones: Odem, Pit’dah, Bareket, Nofekh, Sapir, Yahalom, Leshem, Shevo, Ahlamah, Tarshish, Shoham, Yashfeh. The same piece of ancient armor that protected Master Eben from the mortal ravages of the ark in the Kodesh Hakodashim.

  Hilal pulls it over his body, ties it tight so that the ancient panels press into his skin.

  He hopes that it will protect him too.

  He hangs his twin machetes from a sash. Covers these with a pair of loose cotton pants, hiding them from the world. Puts on worn leather sandals, a baggy white shirt that obscures the Breastplate of Aaron. He pulls on the necklace he wore to the Calling. Even after all that has happened, he still believes in good fortune.

  He is going to need it today.

  He lays the device from the ark on the bed, and his smartphone, and five bundles of $10,000 in crisp $100 bills. All of these will go into his black leather shoulder satchel.

  Last, Hilal picks up the canes, the Rod of Aaron, the Rod of Moses. He activates each by caressing the back of its snakelike head. The brown wood transforms instantly into scaled skin, the things writhe and twirl around Hilal’s forearms. He looks into the cobras’ black eyes flecked with gold.

  The snakes flare their hoods. Show their teeth. Snap at each other. Hilal coos to them. Blows on them. Speaks to them.

  “Today is the day that you will fulfill your purpose,” he says. “Today is the day that you will devour the being that betrayed you so many eons ago. Today is the day that you will give human beings back that which Ea has taken from them.”

  The snake of Aaron shoots forward and runs across Hilal’s shoulders.

  “Today is the day that you will restore innocence to man.”

  AISLING KOPP, POP KOPP, GREG JORDAN, BRIDGET MCCLOSKEY, GRIFFIN MARRS

  Sheraton Grande Tokyo Bay Hotel, Adjoined Suites 1009 and 1011, 1-9 Maihama, Urayasu, Chiba, Japan

  Aisling and her newly formed band of CIA spooks arrived in Japan two days ago and checked into a pair of grand Japanese-style suites overlooking Tokyo Bay. An’s hideout is only a few clicks to the west.

  Marrs is at a computer, sucking on a fancy Japanese lollipop shaped like a chainsaw. Jordan is with him. They talk quietly. McCloskey is on the floor cushions, poring over a large map of the northern islands of Tokyo Port, a wooden platform of half-consumed sushi and Japanese pickles weighing down one corner of the map. Aisling stands at the floor-to-ceiling window. Pop is at her shoulder. Winds, funneled through the Uraga Channel from Sagami Bay, buffet the glass in gusts and whooping howls. The bay is a dark expanse plied by ships of all sizes, surrounded by islands stuffed to capacity with buildings and golf courses and hotels and marinas and shipyards. In the distance, to the southeast, is a white space-age structure that looks like the headquarters of a Bond supervillain. To the west is the Tokyo skyline, limitless and twinkling, the largest city Aisling has ever seen.

  “What a place,” she remarks to Pop in their Celtic language.

  “Yes. I’ve visited twice. Both times I was floored.”

  Aisling and Pop have not had a proper chance to talk about whether or not they should have accepted the help Jordan and his team offered, mainly because they haven’t been left alone for even a second. So they take this chance, in this huge room, the wind howling outside, to talk quietly.

  “What do you think they’re not telling us?” Aisling says in their guttural yet singsongy language.

  “That they wanted to kill you—and every other Player—before they decided that they had to team up with you,” Pop says flatly.

  Aisling nods. “That’s what I think too.”

  “However, I think they mean to help you now. I believe them when they say they’re scared.”

  “I believe that too.”

  They watch the movements of the ships on the bay.

  “Aisling,” Pop says slowly. He doesn’t have to say another word for her to know what he’s going to ask.

  “I told you why already. I wasn’t lying in Port Jervis.”

  “I know you weren’t, but I can’t accept that.”

  “You have to, Pop. I’m the Player and this is my call. You know once the game begins I can’t be replaced. So you’re stuck with me, and this is the way I’m Playing it. Stop the game if possible, win if not.”

  Pop doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry to put you in this position, Pop, and I’ll cut right to it.” She takes a deep breath. “We have to do it this way to honor Dad. To honor your son. To make sure his death was not in vain.” She lets these words sink in. “I know you were ordered to kill him, and I commend you for following that order. Not because I agree with it, but because that’s how it had to work. Our line demands order. That’s our way. But now that it’s all begun, and it’s real and not a thing we’ve imagined for all these years, now that the planet is on the line, we have to do this. We have to. If you want to make Declan’s death mean the right thing, Pop, then this is absolutely what we have to do.”

  She looks at his profile as she speaks. His jaw twitches. His eyes well up.

  Aisling puts a hand on his arm. “I love you and I forgive you, Pop. Now you have to forgive yourself too. I think that this is the best way for you to do that.”

&n
bsp; He still stares out the window. Reaches across his body and takes her hand. Squeezes it. Hard.

  “Are you with me?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  They both know the answer. She doesn’t have to say it.

  “I will always be with you, my Player.”

  “Good.” She slides her hand down his arm and they stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching Tokyo. The water is mesmerizing. Aisling half expects Godzilla to rise out of it and start roaring at helicopters.

  But it’s not time for Armageddon. Not just yet.

  “Good news,” Jordan announces, breaking up the moment she and Pop share. “KFE is online with eyes on Liu and ready to strike on your count, Kopp.”

  Aisling squeezes Pop’s hand one last time and spins to Jordan. “Excellent. Let’s see what they can see.”

  Jordan briefed Aisling on Kilo Foxtrot Echo after he called them up. The team consists of six men and one woman. Four former SEALs, one ex–Delta Force, and two CIA assassins. Their code names are Duck, Wi-Fi, Zealot, Charnel, Clov, Hamm, and Skyline.

  Aisling and Pop join Jordan and Marrs while McCloskey continues to inspect her maps.

  Marrs works a joystick that controls the cameras the team has set up. He tilts left and down. Pushes a red button. An image on his laptop zooms in. “There, in all his glory, lies An Liu,” Marrs says, the lollipop still in his mouth.

  An sleeps on a cot along the wall. He’s covered by a sheet, his emaciated back exposed.

  “That’s him?” Pop asks. “He looks like he’s in a concentration camp.”