Sky Key

BlinkSHIVERblink.

Chiyoko would have liked this night, An thinks. Would have seen the beauty where I can’t.

An rips off the goggles, the straps tearing his bandages and popping a couple of stitches.

He has to get to the chopper.

He peers over the last BLINK last step. A Lynx Mk8, just as he hoped. He’s lined up perfectly with the cockpit—beyond it is the stern of the ship, and then the blackness of open water. He spies twinkling lights along the horizon. A city in the distance. He glances at the sky. Sees Cassiopeia a few degrees above the Earth. Wonders if the SHIVERBLINKSHIVER the keplers are watching him right now, wonders whether they are cheering.

BLINKSHIVERBLINK.

He wants to kill them all for what they did to Chiyoko.

Snuff it all out everywhere for infinity in every direction for all time.

All of it.

blinkSHIVERblinkSHIVERSHIVERBLINK.

An moves to the doorway. The chopper’s lights are off. The pilot is going to take off blink take off blink take off dark.

Now or never.

There’s a 20-millimeter machine gun in the Lynx’s bay that’s aimed right at the empty expanse of deck that An has to cross. He hopes the airmen in the chopper won’t break every protocol in the book and open fire while still on the deck.

An bolts, firing the Glock at the cockpit, but the rounds bounce away, zinging into the rotors.

At two meters he stops firing, holding three rounds in reserve. The chopper rises off the deck slowly. An reaches blinkSHIVERblink the side door just as it’s sliding shut. An fires. The copilot falls into the cargo area, his helmet tearing away from his exploded head. An breathes out, leaps up, scrambles in. SHIVER. The pilot spins in his seat, his Browning perched on his shoulder, but An fires his last two rounds and the pilot falls to the side.

BLINKBLINK.

The Lynx lurches to port as the dead pilot pulls at the stick.

An drops the pistol and vaults over a long metal box in the cargo area, landing in the copilot’s seat.

He gets a strange feeling as he passes the box.

A feeling of calm and peace.

He flicks an array of switches, disabling the pilot’s controls, and takes the copilot’s stick. Floodlights from the boat illuminate the bridge.

BLINKSHIVERBLINKSHIVER.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” An screams in an attempt to banish the tics.

He can barely hear himself through the cacophony of the helicopter.

A dozen sailors, all carrying small arms, spread out under the floodlights and open fire.

BLINKSHIVERBLINK.

Tracers light up the night in multicolored arcs. An smiles. They’re too late.

He brings the chopper up 10 meters and sticks back over the stern, flying precisely north-northeast in reverse, putting almost 87 meters between him and the boat in 2.2 seconds. He flicks the weapons on, prays that the Sea Skua missiles are armed, and presses fire.

Blinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblink—

The missiles scream forward and the ship’s bridge explodes in orange and black and white and An pulls back hard and spins 180 degrees and jams the stick forward and throttles up and hits 170 knots in 4.6 seconds and the ship is burning and exploding behind him and he is free, he is free. Until they scramble the fighter jets to shoot him down he is free.

Shiverblink.

He flies fast northwest, only meters from the surface of the water to avoid radar, and makes for the flickering lights.

Shiverblink.

He is free.

Blink.

Free.

And I will also declare unto you what is written concerning the pride of PHARAOH. MOSES did as God commanded him, and turned his rod into a serpent; and PHARAOH commanded the magicians, the sorcerers, to do the same with their rods. And they made their rods into three serpents which, by means of magic, wriggled before MOSES and AARON, and before PHARAOH and the nobles of EGYPT. And the rod of MOSES swallowed up the rods of the magicians, for these deceivers had worked magic for the sight of the eyes of men. Now that which happeneth through the word of God overcometh every magic that can be wrought. And no one can find him to be evil, for it is the Holy Spirit Who guideth and directeth him that believeth with an upright heart without negligence.

Many Ethiopians and Eritreans and Somalis and Djiboutis and Sudanese believe that the Ark of the Covenant is kept in a cube-shaped concrete building in the Ethiopian city of Aksum, close to the Eritrean border. The building, which is behind a high iron fence and has a small Islamic-style cupola, is called the Chapel of the Tablet at the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion. A single ward attends it. It is in plain view for all to see, and everyone knows what is inside.

Everyone is wrong.

Eben ibn Mohammed al-Julan doesn’t even know what’s in the chapel. It’s not that he lacks the authority to find out—it’s simply that he doesn’t care.

Because he knows where the ark truly rests.

All the initiated members of the line of Aksum know, and have known for millennia.

They know because the Makers decreed them to be the Keepers of the Ark.

They have been its guardians since the fateful year of 597 BCE, when the Babylonians destroyed Jerusalem, razing the Temple of Solomon. It was in the dead of night on 30 Shebat. Nebuchadnezzar II, who was an incarnation of Ea the Corrupted, and his invading horde was less than two miles from the temple. As they advanced, Ebenezer Abinadab and three other Keepers covered the ark in blue linen, took hold of its acacia poles, and lifted. It weighed 358.13 pounds, just as it always had, ever since Moses and Aaron finished building it and the Maker who had spoken to Moses on Mount Sinai had placed his covenant inside.

Ebenezer and the Keepers walked out of the temple, put the ark in a covered cart drawn by a jet-black ox with gilt horns, and drove east across the desert and over the Sinai to Raithu, where they slaughtered the ox and salted his flesh for food and carried the ark onto a small wooden galley to be sailed south on the Red Sea. They took it back on land at Ghalib. These four men, heads down, backs strong, hands never touching any part of the ark save the poles (instant death was the punishment for such a transgression), moved overland on foot for many miles and many weeks. They only moved at night, and avoided all contact with people.

They avoided people out of kindness and respect for life.

For any human—man or woman, babe or elder—who happened to see this sacred caravan of the world’s most esteemed travelers was stricken immediately blind and had his or her mind poisoned with raving, blabbering, slithering madness. Ebenezer saw this phenomenon seven times over the course of their 136-day voyage, recording each instance in his journal, and each was more horrifying than the last.

Eventually, Ebenezer and his companions reached their destination in what is now northern Ethiopia. They put the ark in a thick stand of cedar trees, erected the tabernacle around it, making it safe from wandering eyes, and convened with the esteemed members of the line. The Aksumite Uncorrupted Brotherhood. All the living ex-Players plus the current Player as well, a 14-year-old boy named Haba Shiloh Galead.

The underground temples had already been constructed, if not yet converted to churches—the Makers had seen to their creation when the Aksumite line had been chosen for Endgame thousands of years before—and the ark was taken nine levels down, to the deepest and most secure chamber.

This room is the Kodesh Hakodashim.

Once the ark was in place, the entrance to the Kodesh Hakodashim was backfilled by Haba himself with stone and dirt and glimmering rocks, so that for over 2,600 years the only way to reach it has been through a crawl space just big enough for a man to drag himself through on his elbows.

Which is precisely what Eben ibn Mohammad al-Julan is doing right now. Crawling along the well-worn tunnel on his calloused elbows toward the ark.

Crawling there to do something no person has ever done in the history of history.

He thinks of Hilal as he moves. The Player is weaned from morphine and walking and talking, although the latter causes him much pain. Eben left him in his room, sitting in a chair, staring into a mirror. Hilal’s injuries have afflicted him with a twisted form of vanity. This is new to Hilal. In spite of his previous and unequivocal beauty, he was never vain. But now he cannot stop looking at his face, and is especially smitten with his red eye and its white pupil.

“The world looks different through it,” Hilal said just before Eben left him. The Player’s voice was raspy, as if his throat were full of ash.

Eben asked, “How so?”

“It looks … darker.”

“It is darker, my Player.”

“Yes. You are right.” At last, Hilal looked away from his reflection, turning that red eye on Eben. “When can I Play again, Master?”

Eben has given up on telling Hilal not to call him “Master” anymore.

Old habits die hard.

“Soon. You were right about the Event. It could have been prevented. Furthermore, the keplers intervened.”

“They are not supposed to,” Hilal replied bitterly.

“No.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You are going to keep Playing, but I want to see if we can gain an advantage first. Perhaps you can push back at the keplers, as well as do something that will help you deal with the others.”

“You’re going to open the ark …”

“Yes, Player. I’ll be back. Rest. You’re going to need your energy soon.”

“Yes, Master.”

And Eben left.

That was 27 minutes ago.

He is five meters from the end of the tunnel.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Knock-knock.

The leaden hatch swings into the room, and Eben pushes forward, tumbling into the chamber.

There is no graceful way to enter the Kodesh Hakodashim.

Like the ark it houses, the Kodesh Hakodashim is of specific dimensions. It is 30 feet long, 10 feet high, and 10 feet wide. Every angle in the room—where wall meets floor, wall meets wall, and wall meets ceiling—is a precise 90 degrees. The earthen walls are covered in thick panels of lead, and the lead is leafed in random-length strips of silver and gold. The chamber is lit by a self-powered and undying light of Maker origin, shaped like an inverted umbrella, that hangs from the center of the ceiling. The light gives off an even and pinkish glow with an unwavering 814 lumens.

Two-thirds down the long wall is a curtain of blue and red. In the 10' × 10' x 10' area this curtain creates sits the Ark of the Covenant with the Makers.

The hatch was opened by one of two Nethinim. The one who didn’t open the hatch offers a hand to help Eben stand.

“No thank you, brother,” he says, working his way to his feet. “Same-El, Ithamar,” Eben says. The two men are in their early 30s. Ithamar is an ex-Player, Same-El a trainer in industrial chemistry and Surma-style stick fighting.

“Master al-Julan,” they say in unison.

Eben holds up a hand and does something he has never done before—he closes the hatch and turns the bolt that seals the room.

He turns to the Nethinim.

“It is time?” Same-El asks, his voice shaking.

“Yes, brother. You two have the honor.”

Ithamar’s eyes widen; Same-El’s shoulders shudder. Both look as if they are about to buckle from fear.

But Eben knows better.

Opening the ark is an esteemed honor for the Keepers. The highest honor.

Ithamar breaks all protocol and grabs Eben’s hand and tugs it like a child.

“Can it really be that we are so lucky?” Same-El asks.

“Yes, brother.”

“We will see what Uncle Moses last saw?” Ithamar asks. “Touch what he alone was allowed to touch?”

“If the ark allows, yes. But you know the risks, brothers.”

Yes, the risks.

The Aksumites know all the tales and more. How the ark, if opened, will smite even the most ardent of adherents mercilessly and without fail. How it will unleash hellfire upon the Earth, and pestilence, and untold death. How it will run rivers of blood and scorch the sky and poison the very air, since opening it is not the will of the Makers.

The power inside is God’s and God’s alone.

Not anymore.

God be damned, Eben thinks.

“We are ready, Master,” Same-El says.

“Good, my brother. When the Aksumite line survives the end of ends, you will be remembered among our greatest heroes. Both of you.” He looks the men in the eyes, embraces them, kisses them, smiles with them, and then helps them prepare.

The Nethinim untie and remove their bejeweled breastplates. Ithamar hangs his on a peg and Eben takes Same-El’s and pulls it over his torso, a rectangle of 12 wooden blocks attached to one another with iron metal hoops, each set with a colorful and smooth oval stone, all of them different hues.

The Breastplate of Aaron.

Same-El ties it tight for Eben.

It—plus his faith—will be his only protection.

Ithamar pours holy water from a pitcher into a wooden bowl and kneels. Same-El kneels next to him. They take turns washing their hands and arms and faces, their dark, wet skin reflecting the pinkish light in swirling patterns. Eben’s head is already spinning.

He envies these two men, even if they do end up being sacrificed.

No, because they will end up being sacrificed.

They remove their robes and hang them on the wall and stand, naked, anticipating what is to come.

Eben hugs and kisses each of them one last time. The two men face each other and slap their own thighs until they are red. When they are finished, they slap their stomachs and their chests. They grab each other by the shoulders and yell at each other the names of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers and their fathers’ fathers’ fathers. They invoke Moses and Jesus and Mohammed and Buddha and ask for forgiveness.

Eben asks the same for both blessed men.

Finally, without looking at Eben, Same-El and Ithamar smile and turn toward the curtain. Holding hands, they go forward. Eben turns away and walks to the hatch and presses his knees into it and closes his eyes and covers his ears and waits.

It takes one minute and 16 seconds for the screaming to commence.

It is not joyful or enlightened. It is terrifying. These are two strong men, some of the strongest in the entire line, and they are crying like babes being torn by wild beasts from their mothers’ breasts.

Seventeen seconds later the air at Eben’s back becomes hot, and he can hear the curtain whipping and snapping like an untethered sail in a tempest.

The screams continue, they are desperate, tearing, shrill, final.

Then the light comes, so bright the lids of his squinting eyes turn as orange as the sun, and Eben is slammed into the wall by a heavy wind and he cannot move. His nose is smashed against the wall, which heats up like a stovetop, and he smells his own flesh cooking and hears his own heart beating faster than it’s ever beaten, like it’s going to sing out of his chest, and he too is going to die.

And still the screams, weaving the horror together like a searing thread.

Then darkness, and the air sucks back like a vacuum and the curtain’s metal rings clatter and clank and Eben, eyes still closed, tears freezing in air suddenly turned frigid, has to step back with one foot and then the other to steady himself. His robes pull toward the ark so hard that he thinks they will be torn from his body, or will spread out around him like fabric wings and fly him backward into the howling void.

A full three minutes and 49 seconds after it began, there is silence.

Stillness.

Eben peels his hands from his ears. They are clammy, his fingers stiff, as if he has been gripping something with all his might for hours upon hours. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re crusted shut. He digs his fingers at them, wiping away crystals of ice and gobs of yellow, congealed tears.

He blinks. He can see.

He snaps his fingers. He can hear.

He stamps his feet. He can feel.

The pinkish light of the room is unchanged. He looks at the shiny wall, only centimeters from his face, striped with gold and silver. It is unchanged. He can see his splotchy, imperfect reflection there, just as before.

He breathes.

Breathes and breathes.

Holds his breath and turns.

The room is utterly undisturbed. The lamp hangs from the ceiling on its slender rod. The low gilt table, with the bowl and the pitcher, is on his right. The robes hang on the pegs on the wall. The jeweled breastplate from antiquity that Ithamar wore hangs there too.

The curtain is as before—straight and bright and clean.

“Same-El? Ithamar?” Eben asks.

No answer.

He steps forward.

He reaches the curtain.

He drags his fingertips across it.

He closes his eyes and pushes his hand through the parting and walks in.

He opens his eyes.

And there it is. The Ark of the Covenant, golden, two and one half cubits long, one and one half cubits high, one and one half cubits deep, the mercy seat lifted free and leaning against the wall, the cherubim on top facing each other in timeless reproach.

The only sign that Same-El and Ithamar ever existed are two fist-sized piles of gray ash on the floor, precisely two meters apart.

Eben stands on his tiptoes and tries to see past the leading edge of the ark and into the bottom.

But he cannot see.

He edges closer.

And there. Inside, a ceramic urn coiled in copper wire. A stone tablet without any markings. A wrinkle of black silk pushed into one corner.

And in the middle of the ark two black cobras, looped over each other in a figure eight, sleek and vigorous, chasing and nibbling at each other’s tails.

Eben reaches down and touches the edge of the ark. He is not smitten, not blinded, not driven mad.

He pushes his knees against it and leans forward and grabs a snake in each hand. As soon as his flesh touches theirs, they harden and straighten and transform into wooden rods, each a meter long, and each tipped with a metal snake head on one end and a golden spike on the other.

The Rod of Aaron.

The Rod of Moses.

He slips one under his sash.

He holds the other.

Eben kneels and reaches for the tablet and turns it over with a thump.

It is blank on both sides.

Eben huffs and his heart feels hollow. This is the covenant with the Makers.

A blank stone tablet.

Curse them.

He doesn’t dare open the urn, which is without doubt the manna machine. The Aksumites will guard it—having a machine that potentially makes food might come in handy after the Event, so long as they can figure out how to work it—but they don’t need it yet.

All that’s left is the crumpled pile of black silk.

Eben pushes the silk aside with the cane, and there—there it is.

He leans over and picks it up. Turns it over in his hand. Runs his fingers over it.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

Knock-knock.

Someone is at the hatch.

Eben spins and crosses the Kodesh Hakodashim. He opens the latch and lets the person on the other side push it inward.

Hilal pokes his disfigured head into the chamber. “Well, Master? I couldn’t just sit there and wait.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Is it open?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Same-El and Ithamar.”

“Did they survive?”

“No.”

“God take them.”

“Yes, my Player. God take them.”

“And what was in it?”

“These,” Eben says, indicating the snakelike rods. “They are living weapons. The rods of Aaron and Moses, the consuming snakes, the prime creators, the ouroboros. Our symbols of uncorruption, the hunters of Ea. Even if our line never finds the Corrupted One, the canes will serve you well in Endgame.”

“And what else? What of the covenant?”

“There is no covenant, Player. The tablet was blank.”

Hilal looks to the side. Through clenched teeth he asks, “Was there more, Master?”

“Yes, Player. And that is what you won’t believe.”

Eben holds it out and Hilal looks.

It is a slender sheath of black metal the size of a large smartphone, curved slightly and etched in one corner with a glyph.

Eben hands it to Hilal, and as soon as the Player of the 144th line touches it, it glows to life.

Hilal looks at Eben.

Eben looks at Hilal.

“To Endgame, my Player.”

“To Endgame, Master.”

Shiver.

He is free.

But exactly where he is free he does not know.

He inspects the instrument panel of the Lynx, locates the navigation system and the autopilot. Punches a few buttons on the touch screen and sees the English Channel. The lights to the north are Dover. He does not want to return to England, not ever, not ever blinkSHIVERblink ever blinkSHIVER ever blinkblinkSHIVERBLINKBLINKBLINK not ever.

An punches himself in the cheek to knock away the tics.

It works. “Chiyoko Takeda,” he whispers. “Chiyoko Takeda.”

Blood drips from his nose.

Shiver.

He blows out his cheeks. The adrenaline from the escape dissipates. The pain soaked into every cubic centimeter of his head revs like an engine.

He grabs the stick and arcs the Lynx low over the water, until his heading is 202?13' 35". He passes the still-burning destroyer three kilometers to the east, and prays that they don’t see him and that their guns are disabled, or that they’re too distracted by the burning ship to even bother with the guns.

And that’s when he notices a section of the controls that he isn’t familiar with, and realizes why the chopper was taking off dark, and why he is not at the moment being shot out of the air by a pair of F/A-18s.

It took off dark because it could.

The strange controls are a stealth array, and they are already active.

An can use this bird to disappear.

Blink. Shiver.

Why would stealth be active in the first place? If he had been on the Lynx as their prisoner, that would have made sense—he is a Player of Endgame, one of the deadliest people on the planet—but it was scrambling to take off before he’d even reached the flight deck.

So why take off dark?

Blink. Shiver. Blink.

And then he lurches forward, as if someone hit him in the back of the neck.

The metal box in the cargo hold.

The metal box the size of a coffin.

CHIYOKO TAKEDA.

An brings the chopper up 50 meters to keep a safe distance from the water and activates the autopilot, punching in a new heading of 140° 22' 07".